PRINCETON,  N.  J. 


BV  4915  .K4  1857  y/ 

Kennedy,  John,  1813-1900. 
The  divine  life 


Shelf.... 


(^ 


THE 


A  BOOK  OF  FACTS  AND  HISTORIES, 


SHOWINa    THE 


glauifcllr  Morlungs  of  tk  |al]r  ^^irit. 


KEY.  JOHN"  KENNEDY, 


"The  words  of  Christ  assure  us  that  the  communication  of  the  life  of  God  to 
men  was  the  greatest  of  all  miracles,  the  essence  and  aim  of  all ;  and  further, 
that  it  was  to  be  the  standing  miracle  of  all  after-ages." — Neander. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PARRY    &     M^M  I  L  L  AN, 

SUCCESSORS  TO  A.  HART,  la«  CARET  A  HABT. 

1857. 


STEREOTYPED   BY    L.   JOHNSON   &   CO. 

PHILADELralA. 

PRINTED   Br  T.  K.  &  F.  G.  COLLINS. 


PREFACE. 


It  has  been  well  said  that  "a  man's  religion  is  the 
chief  fact  with  regard  to  him."  "The  thing  a  man  does 
practically  lay  to  heart,  and  know  for  certain,  concerning 
his  vital  relations  to  this  mysterious  universe,  and  his  duty 
and  destiny  there,  that  is  in  all  cases  the  primary  thing  for 
him,  and  creatively  determines  all  the  rest."  It  follows 
that  "the  thing  a  man  does  practically  lay  to  heart,"  the 
formative  principle  of  spiritual  character,  if  it  be  error, 
will  poison  the  soul, — if  truth,  it  will  bring  health  and  life. 
Instead  of  its  being  a  matter  of  indifference  whether  we 
worship  "Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Baal,"  false  religion  is,  to  use 
the  words  of  Vinet,  "a  disordered  spirit,  which,  in  the 
ardour  of  its  thirst,  plunges,  all  panting,  into  fetid  and 
troubled  waters :  it  is  an  exile,  who,  in  seeking  the  road  to 
his  native  land,  buries  himself  in  frightful  deserts." 

What,  then,  is  Truth  ?  The  question  is  a  very  old  one. 
It  was  asked  and  discussed  among  the  pastoral  chiefs  of 
Arabia  three-and-thirty  centuries  ago.  "Where  shall  wis- 
dom be  found?  and  where  is  the  place  of  understanding? 
The  depth  saith,  It  is  not  me :  and  the  sea  saith.  It  is  not 
with  me.  It  cannot  be  gotten  for  gold,  neither  shall  silver 
be  weighed  for  the  price  thereof.  ....  Whence  then 
Cometh  wisdom?  and  where  is  the  place  of  understanding?" 


This  volume  is  designed  to  be  a  small  contribution  to- 
wards an  answer  to  this  momentous  inquiry.  And  it  is 
hoped  that  the  facts  and  histories  which  it  contains  will, 
through  the  blessing  of  God,  guide  not  a  few  to  Him  who 
is  the  Way,  the  Truth,  and  the  Life.  The  facts  and  his- 
tories are  left  for  the  most  part  to  teach  their  own  lesson, 
and  when  the  principles  which  are  involved  in  them  are 
formally  deduced  and  illustrated,  it  is  more  frequently  in 
the  words  of  others,  than  in  those  of  the  Author,  that  thus 
testimony  may  be  borne  to  the  existence  of  a  wide  and 
scriptural  harmony  among  different  communions  as  to  what 
the  Divine  Life  is,  and  how  it  is  produced. 

" From  his  bright  pavilion, 

Like  Eastern  bridegroom  clad, 
Hailed  by  earth's  thousand  million, 

The  Sun  sets  forth,  right  glad. 
So  pure,  so  soul-restoring. 

Is  Truth's  diviner  ray  ; 
A  brighter  radiance  pouring 

Than  all  the  pomp  of  day : 
The  wanderer  surely  guiding. 

It  makes  the  simple  wise  j 
And,  evermore  abiding, 

Unfailing  joy  supplies." 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

PAGE 

Modern  Science — Spiritual  Facts — These  fit  subjects  of  inves- 
tigation— Their  importance  and  interest — The  Divine  Life  ; 
■what  is  it? — Language  of  the  Apostle  Peter 7-12 

PART  I. 

ITS     NATURE. 

The  Religious  Faculty — Bechuanas — Heathenism — Moham- 
medanism— Asceticism — Saul  of  Tarsus — Luther,  Loyola, 
Latimer,  Col.  Gardiner,  Urquhart,  Birrell,  Caroline  Fry — 
Conclusions — Quotations  from  Howe,  Bullar,  and  Butler. ..13-106 

PART   II. 

ITS     ORIGINATION. 

Diversity  and  Unitj' — Remarks  of  "Wilberforce,  Chalmers,  and 
Fletchei* — Miracles  of  Christ — Changes  in  Natiire — First 
Class  of  Instances :  John  Foster,  R.  Morrison,  Knibb — 
Second  Class :  Bengel,  Blackader,  J.  J.  Gurney,  J.  Fletcher, 
Mrs.  Graham — Third  Class:  Paul,  Philippian  Jailer,  C. 
Anderson  —  Fourth  Class:  John  Bunyan,  Major-General 
Andrew  Burn — Fifth  Class:  Bilney,  Archer  Butler,  M.  Boos — 
Sixth  Class :  Lyttleton,  "West,  Jenyns,  Dykern,  Rochester, 
Wilson,  H.  K.  White — Seventh  Class :  Inspiration  and  Con- 
stitutional Peculiai-ities,  Jonathan  Edv^-ards,  Mrs.  Phelps — 
Remarks 107-^1.2 


PART   III. 
PROVIDENTIAL     OCCASIONS. 

PAUS 

Events  divided  into  Two  Classes — The  Casual,  a  Storehouse  of 
Divine  Weapons  —  Gilford  —  Bunyan  —  Alderman  Kiffin — 
Lady  Huntingdon  and  Captain  Scott — Robinson — Simeon — 
Wilberforce — Legh  Richmond — Chalmers — Doddridge — R. 
Haldane — Students  in  Geneva — John  AVilliams — Dr.  Judson 
— Budgett — Hewitson — Dr.  Hope — Narrative  by  Dr.  Malan 
— The  Influence  of  Affliction — Howels — Cecil — Waldo — John 
Newton— Remarks  by  Tholuck— The  Finger  of  God 213-288 

PART   IV. 

TRUE     MEANS. 

Pilgrim  and  the  Cross — Allegory  by  Dr.  James  Hamilton — 
Moi-avian  Missions — Testimony  of  John  Williams — Cannibal 
Priest — Rammohun  Roy — Banerji — Experience  of  Dr.  DuiF — 
John  Wesley — C.  Wesley — Whitefield — Kingswood  Colliers — 
David  Hume — Hervey — Walker — Toplady — Berridge — Bax- 
ter— A.  Fuller — Dr.  MacAU — Quotations  from  Isaac  Taylor, 
Chalmers,  and  Professor  Butler 289-359 

CONCLUSION. 

Standing  Miracle — Argument  for  Divinity  of  the  Gospel — 
What  Conversion  does  not  do — What  it  is  not — Am  I  a  Par- 
taker of  the  Divine  Life  ? — Dying  Young  Lady — "  The  Sand 
and  the  Rock." 360-375 


INTEODUCTIOK 


It  is  the  boast  of  modern  science  that  its  decisions 
are  based  on  facts.  Three  centuries  ago,  Lord  Bacon 
taught  men  to  abandon  their  mere  conjectures  and 
fancies  about  the  properties  of  matter  and  the  laws 
of  the  universe,  and  to  go  into  the  school  of  nature 
as  little  children.  Would  we  understand  the  mate- 
rial world,  he  said,  we  should  not  consult  our  imagina- 
tion, but  should  rather  bring  together  facts  and 
instances,  examine  them  in  all  possible  lights  and 
aspects,  and  then  draw  from  them  such  general  truths 
as  are  involved  in  them.  Before  this  rule  a  host  of 
wild  theories  vanished  at  once.  It  was  by  a  rigid  ad- 
herence to  it  that  Sir  Isaac  Newton  concluded  that 
the  descent  of  a  tile  from  a  house,  or  an  apple  from  a 
tree,  is  produced  by  the  same  cause  which  keeps  the 
planets  in  their  paths  round  the  sun.  And  now 
science  accepts  of  no  theory,  even  the  most  captivating 
and  brilliant,  that  is  not  a  proper  induction  from  as- 
certained and  acknowledged  facts. 

The  inner  world  of  man's  spiritual  nature  has  its 
facts  as  well  as  the  outer  and  material;  and  to  the 
examination  of  one  class  of  them  this  book  is  devoted, 
in  the  hope  of  finding  in  them  some  help  towards  un- 
derstanding wherein  the  divine  life  consists,  and  how 
it  is  produced.     The  name  by  which  the  facts  in  view 

7 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

are  ordinarily  designated,  conversion,  is  offensive  to 
many;  but  the  wise  man  who  would  make  good  his 
title  to  be  a  follower  of  Lord  Bacon  will  examine 
them  without  prejudice ;  he  will  not  conclude  at  once 
that  all  who  use  this  term  are  fools  or  hypocrites,  but 
will  seek  to  ascertain  dispassionately  the  true  charac- 
ter of  the  phenomenon  (if  we  must  use  scientific 
language)  which  occupies  so  prominent  a  place  in  re- 
ligious histoiy. 

The  facts  to  which  we  appeal  are  of  both  ancient 
and  modern  date.  The  history  of  Christianity  is  full 
of  them.  They  have  been  faithfully  recorded  by  those 
who  had  personal  knowledge  of  them,  or  who  received 
their  information  from  credible  witnesses.  They 
occur,  in  larger  or  smaller  numbers,  in  every  congre- 
gation of  human  beings  to  which  the  gospel  of  Jesus 
Christ  is  continually  preached.  And,  although  they 
belong  to  the  invisible  region  of  the  soul,  they  are 
made  palpable  by  various  means  which  bring  them 
within  the  reach  of  our  knowledge.  We  can  look  at 
them  in  all  the  phases  which  they  assume,  we  can 
trace  their  progress  in  the  very  act  of  occurrence,  we 
can  examine  the  means  which  produce  them,  and  we 
can  observe  the  results  in  which  they  issue.  If  real, 
these  facts  must  be  important.  Transformations  of 
human  character  transcend  in  interest  any  transforma- 
tions of  which  material  substances  are  capable.  The 
laws  which  affect  the  progress  of  a  spirit  out  of  a  state 
of  sin  into  one  of  holiness  are  incomparably  more 
momentous  than  those  which  affect  the  growth  of  the 
body  or  the  cure  of  natural  disease.  "  All  the  varia- 
tions of  fortune  in  her  wildest  caprices,  lifting  peasants 
to  a  throne,  and  depressing  kings  to  a  dungeon,  are 
idle  as  the  changeful  shadowings  of  an  evening  cloud, 


SPIRITUAL   FACTS.  9 

■when  compared  with  that  solitaiy  hour,  -when  He  who 
<  stands  at  the  door  and  knocks'  is  first  consciously 
admitted  by  the  loving  heart  of  a  repentant  believer." 
"  The  moral  history  of  a  beggar,  which  faithfully  re- 
vealed the  interior  movements  of  his  mind,  and  laid 
open  the  secret  causes  which  contributed  to  form  and 
determine  his  character,  might  enlarge  and  enlighten 
the  views  of  a  philosopher." 

The  reader  is  not  asked,  however,  to  accept  without 
question  our  averment  that  there  are  spiritual  facts 
of  this  order  as  real  as  any  which  occui'  in  the  material 
world,  n6r  do  we  ask  him  to  accept  without  question 
our  interpretation  of  them.  The  more  rigidly  men 
apply  Lord  Bacon's  principle  of  induction  to  our 
histories  the  better.  They  will  thus  dis|;inguish  be- 
tween appearances  and  realities,  between  accidental 
resemblances  and  essential  oneness ;  they  will  pene- 
trate through  the  diversities  of  form  which  these  facts 
assume,  and  ascertain  for  themselves  the  common 
principle  which  pervades  them.  Only,  in  doing  this, 
let  them  remember  that  they  are  in  a  better  position 
than  the  student  of  Material  nature.  Their  inquiries 
have  been  anticipated  by  a  Book  which  reveals  the 
philosophy  they  are  in  search  of  This  Book  describes 
the  spiritual  occurrences  which  take  place  in  the 
history  of  man's  soul,  and  is  itself  the  means  of  their 
production;  and  it  furnishes  criteria,  though  not 
formally,  by  which  to  distinguish  the  genuine  from 
the  counterfeit.  To  reject  its  aid  in  our  investigation 
were  to  grope  our  way  through  a  naturally  dark 
labyrinth,  under  the  guidance  of  our  own  senses  of 
sight  and  touch,  when  we  might  traverse  its  most 
remote  and  intricate  recesses  with  the  illumination  of 
a  bright  sun  and  the  direction  of  an  unerring  guide. 


10  INTRODUCTION. 

The  divine  life — what  is  it?  All  things,  we  know, 
are,  in  a  sense,  divine,  because  all  things  are  of  God. 
This  obvious  truth,  however,  has,  by  the  help  of  am- 
biguous language,  been  worked  into  a  form  which, 
under  the  guise  of  beautiful  sentiment,  strikes  at  the 
foundation  of  religion.  Every  thing  that  is  beautiful 
or  great  is  freely  spoken  of  as  "  divine."  Genius,  espe- 
cially, is  "  divine,"  if  not  divinity  itself,  and  its  pos- 
sessors are  gods.  So  that  there  are  both  divine  moun- 
tains and  divine  men.  A  Divine  Being,  distinct  from 
all  other  beings ;  possessing  a  nature  peculiarly  and 
exclusively  his  own ;  Himself,  by  his  personal  will  and 
power,  the  creator  and  supporter  of  other  beings — this 
is  a  God  that  many  dreamers  will  not  know  or  confess. 
Their  divinity  is  some  mystic  essence  which,  unseen 
and  subtle,  spreads  itself  universally,  pervades  and 
penetrates  the  whole  creation.  It  is  not  exactly  light, 
nor  air,  nor  electricity,  nor  magnetism;  but  it  is  some- 
thing of  the  like  kind.  It  is  not  peculiar  to  the  intel- 
lectual and  intelligent  universe;  it  belongs  to  the 
material  as  well.  So  that  we  may  say  there  is  more 
of  divinity  in  the  sunbeam  than  in  the  dull  clod  of  the 
valley,  and  more  in  the  majestic  eagle,  which  soars  in 
mid-heaven,  and  gazes  in  the  face  of  the  sun's  bright- 
est blaze,  than  in  the  earthworm  which  dwells  in  the 
darkness  of  its  native  soil. 

With  some  persons  the  ascription  of  "  divinity"  to 
every  thing  good  and  great  may  be  nothing  more  than 
poetic  sentiment,  but  with  others  it  is  the  very  spirit 
of  atheism;  in  this  polite  form,  they  bow  the  Creator 
out  of  his  own  universe.  To  make  every  thing  divine 
is  to  make  nothing  divine;  to  find  essential  divinity  in 
every  thing,  a  part  of  every  thing,  or  an  attribute  of 
every  thing,  is  to  deprive  it  of  that  personal,  intelligent, 


DiVINITY.  11 

self-conscious,  and  almighty  existence  which  consti- 
tutes Godhead. 

The  Bible,  happily,  never  exhibits  one  truth  as  the 
antagonist  of  another,  and  never  so  cherishes  and 
exaggerates  one  truth  as  to  make  it  destructive  of 
another.  According  to  the  Apostle  Peter,  men  may 
be  made  '' partakers  of  the  divine  nature;"*  but  there 
is  no  truth  more  fundamental  to  Christianity,  none  of 
which  it  takes  a  firmer  grasp,  or  presents  a  bolder 
view,  than  the  existence  of  a  divine  nature  which  is 
peculiar  to  one  great  and  glorious  Being,  to  which 
there  is  no  approximation,  and  of  which  there  can  be 
no  participation.  "  I  am  God,  and  beside  me  there  is 
none  else,"  are  the  words  in  which  this  great  One 
isolates  himself  from  all  other  beings.  He  thus  draws 
around  himself  a  circle  within  which  no  one  else 
dwells.  Beyond  this  circle  there  is  a  universe,  im- 
mense and  various,  but  it  is  no  part  of  him — it  is  only 
his  workmanship.  And  of  his  ineffable  nature,  with 
its  omniscience  and  omnipotence,  neither  angels  nor 
men  are  partakers. 

The  language  of  the  Apostle  Peter  is  at  no  variance 
with  this  first  truth.  He  expounds  himself  To  be  a 
"partaker  of  the  divine  nature"  is  to  have  "escaped 
the  corruption  that  is  in  the  world  through  lust." 
And  this,  too,  his  "  beloved  brother  Paul  also,  accord- 
ing to  the  wisdom  given  unto  him,  indicates,  when  he 
says  that  the  Pather  of  our  spirits  chastens  us  that 
we  may  be  "  partakers  of  his  holiness."  On  the  same 
authority  we  are  taught  that  the  "new  man"  which 
is  "after  God,"  or  "after  the  image  of  God,"  is 
"  created  in  righteousness  and  true  holiness."     And 


12  INTRODUCTION.  ' 

this  ''true  holiness"  is  "the  glory  of  the  Lord"  into 
which  Christians  are  transformed.*  To  be  morally 
Godlike,  is  to  be  a  "partaker  of  the  divine  nature" 
and  of  the  divine  life. 

The  life  of  sense  which  animates  the  body  is  a 
divine  life,  in  that  it  is  the  gift  of  God.  The  life  of 
intelligence  which  animates  the  intellect  is,  for  the 
same  reason,  a  divine  life.  And  both  of  them,  common 
as  they  are,  are  mysteries  which  have  been  hid  from 
past  ages,  and  are  not  likely  to  be  unveiled  to  those 
that  are  to  come.  But  the  divine  life  of  which  we 
speak  is  something  higher  and  better  still.  It  is  the 
life  of  godly  principle  and  godly  affection  in  the  soul. 
It  is  that  from  which  springs  "true  holiness,"  and 
which,  when  it  animates  a  man,  makes  him  godlike  in 
purity  and  love. 

A  divine  life,  then,  is  not  ja  figure  of  speech,  but  a 
truth  and  reality,  the  highest  form  of  moral  existence, 
whether  in  beings  that  tread  this  earth,  or  in  spirits 
that  people  heaven.  Without  attempting,  at  present, 
any  further  definition  of  it,  we  will  endeavour  to  feel 
our  way  towards  a  better  knowledge  both  of  what  it 
is  and  of  how  it  is  produced. 

*  Ileb.  xii.  10;  Eph.  iy.  22-2i;  Col.  jii.  9, 10;  2  Cor.  iii.  18. 


PART   THE   FIRST. 

THE     DIVINE     LIFE:     ITS    NATURE. 

FACTS. 

Contents. — The  Religious  Faculty — Bechuanas — Heathenism — 
Mohammedanism — Asceticism — Saul  of  Tarsus — Luther,  Loyola, 
Latimer,  Col.  Gardiner,  Urquhart,  Birrell,  Caroline  Fry — Con- 
clusions— Quotations  from  Howe,  Bullar,  and  Butler. 


"Every  religion  is  false,  which  has  not  for  its  leading  tenet,  to  adore 
one  God  as  the  first  principle  of  all  things ;  and  its  moral  system,  to  love 
one  God  only  and  supremely  in  all  things." — Pascal. 

*'  Any  one  understanding  the  real  nature  of  man  must  perceive  that  a 
true  religion  ought  to  be  based  in  our  nature ;  ought  to  know  its  great- 
ness and  its  degradation,  and  the  causes  of  both  the  one  and  the  other. 
"What  religion  but  Cliristianity  exhibits  such  a  knowledge  as  this  ?" — 
Pascal. 

13 


"There  is  a  phenomenon  in  the  moral  world  for  which  no  adequate 
natural  cause  has  ever  yet  been  assigned, — I  mean  a  great  and  sudden 
change  of  temper  and  character,  brought  about  under  a  strong  impres- 
sion of  scriptural  truths — a  change  in  many  cases  from  habitual  vice  and 
malignity  to  the  sweetness  and  purity  of  the  Christian  spirit,  and  con- 
tinuing to  manifest  itself  in  a  new  character  through  life,  accompanied, 
if  you  will  believe  the  subjects,  with  new  views  of  God  and  Christ,  and 
divine  things  in  general,  and  with  new  feelings  towards  them.  .  .  . 
Thousands  who  are  not  mad,  but  cool,  dispassionate,  and  wise,  the  orna- 
ments of  society  and  learning,  whose  word  would  be  taken  in  any  other 
case,  and  who  certainly  ought  to  be  regarded  as  competent  judges,  teU 
you  that  they  have  had  opportunity  to  see  both  sides,  as  the  revilers  of 
this  doctrine  have  not;  that  they  once  looked  upon  the  subject  with  the 
eyes  of  their  opponents,  but  have  since  seen  for  themselves,  and  do  as- 
suredly know  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  spiritual  change  of  heart. 
And  what  witnesses  can  you  oppose  to  these  ?  Men  who  offer  mere  nega- 
tive testimony — who  can  only  say,  they  know  of  no  such  thing." — Dr. 
Edward  D.  Griffin. 


14 


THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

ITS    NATURE. 

""We  may  travel  the  world/'  said  Plutarch,  "and  find 
cities  without  walls,  without  letters,  without  kings, 
without  wealth,  without  coin,  without  schools  and 
theatres ;  but  a  city  without  a  temple,  without  wor- 
ship, without  prayers,  no  one  ever  saw."  These  words 
of  the  ancient  Greek  are  as  true  now  as  they  were 
eighteen  centuries  ago.  The  discovery  of  a  new  world 
beyond  the  Atlantic,  and  of  innumerable  islands  in 
the  Pacific,  has  only  supplied  fresh  evidence  of  the 
fact  that  religion,  in  some  form,  is  the  common  at- 
tribute and  possession  of  mankind.  The  progress  of 
geography  has  revealed  new  modes  of  civilization  and 
of  barbarism,  but  has  not  informed  us  of  nations  that 
practise  no  worship,  or  at  least  that  have  proved  in- 
capable of  being  taught  to  worship. 

The  missionary,  Eobert  Mofiat,  sought  in  vain,  he 
tells  us,  to  find  among  the  Bechuanas  and  Bushmen 
a  temple,  an  altar,  or  a  single  emblem  of  heathen 
worship.  No  fragments  remained  of  former  days, 
as  mementos  to  the  present  generation,  that  their 
ancestors  ever  loved,  served,  or  reverenced  a  being 
greater  than  man.  Their  religious  system,  like  those 
streams  in  the  desert  which  lose  themselves  in  the 
sand,  had  entirely  disappeared.  And  the  missionary 
could  make  no  appeals  to  legends,  or  to  altars,  or  to  an 

15 


16  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

unknown  God.  They  had  faith  in  a  rain-maker,  but 
the  missionary  does  not  regard  this  faith  as  involving 
in  it  any  idea  of  the  supernatural. 

In  these  degraded  tribes,  apparently  exceptional 
to  the  common  rule,  and  just  because  they  are  excep- 
tional, we  have  what  may  be  regarded  as  the  very  best 
means  of  an  experiment  to  determine  whether  the 
rehgious  faculty  is  as  universal  as  the  rational.  They 
were  in  a  state  of  ignorance  from  which  was  excluded 
every  ray  of  divine  truth,  every  notion  of  Godhead 
and  immortality;  were  they  likewise  incapable  of  ap- 
prehending and  receiving  religious  ideas  ?  They  were 
without  the  knowledge  of  God — of  any  god;  were  they 
likewise  without  a  capacity  to  know  God?  The 
means  were  used  which  should  determine  this  question. 
The  fitting  test  was  applied  when  the  missionary  de- 
clared to  them  the  being  and  character  of  God,  and 
preached  to  them  the  facts  of  the  Christian  revelation, 
especially  the  love  of  God  to  man  as  manifested  in 
the  gospel.  When  thus  tested,  the  Bechuanas  awoke 
from  the  slumber  of  generations.  Their  hearts  re- 
sponded to  the  appeal.  And  it  was  proved  that  even 
in  their  souls  there  lay  unextinguished,  though  un- 
exercised, the  most  distinctive  character  of  humanity, 
the  faculty  of  knowing,  loving,  and  serving  God. 
Many  of  them  are  now  enlightened  and  spiritual  wor- 
shippers of  the  Most  High. 

Admitting  the  universal  existence  of  the  religious 
faculty,  it  becomes  a  question  of  great  interest  how  it 
is  to  be  exercised  in  order  to  the  divine  life  in  a  man's 
soul.  The  Chinese  worship  their  ancestors.  The 
Hindoos  reckon  their  gods  by  hundreds  of  millions. 
One-half  of  the  human  race  are  pantheists,  who  con- 
found nature  with  its  God  and  Maker.     These  have 


EARNESTNESS.  IT 

not  attained  to  the  knowledge  -vvhich  even  the  Sunday- 
school  child  receives  from  the  first  verse  of  the  Bible 
— "In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heavens  and 
the  earth."  The  "  beginning"  of  the  heavens  and 
the  earth  is,  in  their  imagination,  as  ancient  as  the 
beginning  of  God  himself  A  personal  God,  distinct 
from  the  creation,  and  not  its  soul  or  animating  prin- 
ciple— eternal,  intelligent,  and  self-conscious — has  no 
place  in  their  faith.  And  pantheism  either  descends 
into  atheism,  as  in  the  case  of  cold-hearted  speculators, 
or  grows  into  polytheism,  and,  ascribing  divinity  to 
every  part  and  attribute  of  nature,  worships  all  out- 
ward things,  from  the  reptile  that  crawls  on  the  earth, 
to  the  sun  that  shines  in  the  heavens.  From  this 
spirit,  so  rife  in  both  ancient  and  modern  heathendom, 
Mohammedanism  strongly  recoils,  and  builds  itself  on 
the  doctrine  of  one  living  invisible  God  who  doeth 
all  things  after  the  counsel  of  his  eternal  will.  Chris- 
tianity associates  the  doctrine  of  one  living  personal 
God  with  his  incarnation  in  Jesus  Christ,  and  the 
atoning  death  which  Christ  endured  on  the  cross- 
Now,  we  would  inquire.  May  the  divine  life  be  pro- 
duced indifferently  by  all  these  systems  ? 

If  the  life  of  God  in  the  soul  consisted  in  the  mere 
fervent  exercise  of  the  religious  faculty,  we  should 
answer  this  question  in  the  affirmative.  There  is  no 
object  of  worship  that  has  ever  been  named,  which  has 
not  had  power  to  excite  the  fervour  of  its  votaries. 
The  ancient  Egyptians,  twenty  centuries  ago,  croAvding 
along  the  sacred  Nile,  seven  hundred  thousand  in 
number,  according  to  Herodotus,  to  the  festival  of  the 
cat-headed  Bubastis;  the  modern  Hindoos,  hasting 
from  all  parts  of  India  to  their  holy  city,  Benares,  to 
worship  its  sacred  Bulls,  and  wash  in  its  sacred  river; 


18  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

the  followers  of  Mohammed  going  on  pilgrimage  from 
all  lands  to  Mecca;  the  so-called  followers  of  Jesus 
Christ,  of  the  Greek  and  Eoman  rites,  rushing  down 
the  banks  of  the  Jordan  on  Easter-day,  and  plunging 
themselves  into  its  waters — have  this  in  common,  that 
their  religious  practices  are  honoured  with  the  utmost 
fervour  of  their  nature.  But  it  is  a  fervour  which  is 
compatible  with  the  profoundest  ignorance,  and  with 
a  moral  condition  so  low  and  debased,  that  those  who 
have  the  means  of  knowing  it  frequently  dechne  to 
inform  the  world  what  they  have  seen  and  heard. 

Sincerity  in  religion  is  often  indolently  regarded  as 
having  power  to  cover  both  a  multitude  of  errors,  and 
a  multitude  of  sins.  And  if  sincerity  be  fanned  into 
earnestness,  it  is  a  popular  theory  that  it  may  dispense 
with  the  element  of  religion  altogether,  and  that,  even 
if  it  does,  the  earnest  man  is  the  great  man  to  whom 
all  others  of  mortal  form  are  to  render  homage.  This 
principle  will  not  only  place  superstition,  enthusiasm, 
and  fanaticism,  side  by  side  with  enlightened  piety,  as 
equally  forms  of  the  divine  life,  but  will  exalt  Satan 
himself  to  a  throne  from  which  he  may  lawfully  claim 
our  worship.  There  is,  perhaps,  not  a  more  earnest 
created  being  in  the  universe  than  he.  He  knows 
and  believes  much  of  the  most  important  truth,  but 
hates  it  all  with  an  intensity  of  which  man  is  not 
capable.  What  the  absolute  amount  of  his  power  is 
we  do  not  know,  but  we  know  that  his  energies  are 
in  constant  and  restless  action.  Let  it  be  indifferent 
whether  earnestness  be  associated  with  purity  or  im- 
purity, benevolence  or  malevolence,  and  it  will  not 
diminish  the  devil's  claims  to  honour,  that  he  is  earnestly 
engaged  in  works  of  dishonour  to  God  and  ruin  to  man ; 
it  would  be  our  duty  to  admire  him  as  truly  great, 


IDOL-WORSHIP.  19 

and  to  protest  against  the  bad  opinion  which  is  com- 
monly entertained  of  his  character.  But  our  moral  sense 
revolts  against  a  theory  which  leads  to  such  conclusions. 

In  feehng  our  way  to  a  true  notion  of  the  divine 
life,  we  may  dismiss  from  our  thoughts  all  the  systems 
which  are  condemned  in  the  law — "Thou  shalt  not 
make  imto  thee  any  graven  image,  or  any  likeness  of 
any  thing  that  is  in  heaven  above,  or  that  is  in  the 
earth  beneath,  or  that  is  in  the  water  under  the  earth : 
thou  shalt  not  bow  down  thyself  to  them,  nor  serve 
them."*  "  Graven  images"  may  have  been  originally 
the  symbols  of  divine  attributes,  and,  even  when  the 
popular  mind  had  become  so  debased  and  ignorant  as 
to  regard  them  as  in  themselves  divinities,  there  may 
have  been  in  most  countries  a  select  few  who  main- 
tained in  secret  the  knowledge  and  belief  that  they 
were  only  symbols.  But  whether  regarded  as  sym- 
bolical or  as  properly  divine,  their  worship  is  incom- 
patible with  just  conceptions  of  the  Godhead. 

Historically,  indeed,  we  know  nothing  of  idolatry 
as  a  pure  symbolical  system.  It  has  existed,  and  still 
exists,  only  as  a  gross  materialism,  the  worship  of  out- 
ward things,  which  were  held  to  be,  not  representative 
of  divine  attributes,  but  possessed  of  them.  "  That 
men  should  have  worshipped  their  poor  fellow-man  as 
a  god,  and  not  him  only,  but  stocks  and  stones,  and 
all  manner  of  animate  and  inanimate  objects;  and 
fashioned  for  themselves  such  a  distracted  chaos  of 
hallucinations  by  way  of  theory  of  the  universe — all 
this  looks  like  an  incredible  fable.  ^Nevertheless,  it  is 
a  clear  fact  that  they  did  it." 

The  refined   and  learned  Greeks  were   "fools"  in 


20  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

this  matter  equally  with  the  most  ignorant  and  bar- 
barous people ;  at  least,  so  thought  the  Apostle  Paul. 
He  regarded  the  heathen,  not  as  children  giving  ex- 
pression to  infantine  and  immature  conceptions  of  God 
in  visible  forms,  but  as  the  inheritors  of  a  deep  dege- 
neracy which  had  originated  in  the  aversion  of  men 
to  the  true  character  and  rule  of  the  Eternal  and  Holy 
One.  He  could  not  but  remark  the  contrast  between 
theirintellectual  and  religious  condition.  Their  oratory, 
and  poetry,  and  architecture,  showed  genius  and  ad- 
vancement. But  their  religion  !  Within  temples, 
whose  glory,  as  works  of  art,  is  not  yet  forgotten,  he 
found  altars,  on  which  burned  incense  to  the  meanest 
reptiles,  or  to  the  mere  image  of  wood  or  stone.  And, 
bending  in  prostrate  homage  before  those  altars,  ho 
saw  men  the  fame  of  whose  genius  is  still  fresh  in  the 
world.  They  were  no  children,  but  men  of  mighty 
and  cultivated  intellect.  And  Paul  found  in  their  wor- 
ship, not  the  strivings  of  great  and  uninstructed  souls 
to  realize  all  that  is  godlike  in  man  and  nature,  but 
the  blindness  and  fatuity  which  our  moral  apostasy 
from  our  Maker  has  inflicted  on  mankind. 

History  has  preserved  one  specimen  of  the  way  in 
which  this  great  apostle  of  truth  argued  with  educated 
idolaters  the  great  question  of  the  spirituality  of  the 
Godhead.  Standing  on  Mars'  Hill  among  the  assembled 
philosophers  and  areopagites  of  Athens,  he  quoted  the 
saying  of  one  of  their  own  poets — ''  We  are  the  off- 
spring of  God" — a  saying  which  involves  the  scriptural 
idea  that  man  is  made  in  the  image  of  God,  and,  con- 
sequently, that  there  is  a  God  other  and  higher  than 
man's  hands  can  fashion.  "  Forasmuch  then,^'  argued 
Paul,  "as  Ave  are  the  offspring  of  God,  we  ought  not  to 
think  that  the  Godhead  is  like  unto  gold,  or  silver, 


PAUL   AT   ATHENS.  21 

or  stone,  graven  by  art  and  man's  device."*  It  can  be 
only  in  our  spiritual  nature  that  we  are  the  offspring 
of  God.  The  Godhead,  man's  Father,  the  Father  of 
man's  spirit,  must  therefore  be  spiritual,  and  can  only 
be  dishonoured  and  misrepresented  by  an  image  of 
gold  or  silver,  or  wood  or  stone.  The  apostle  took 
hold  of  the  highest  and  purest  religious  sentiment 
Avhich  was  to  be  found  in  the  literature  of  Greece  to 
strike  at  the  root  of  the  popular  worship.  The  senti- 
ment was  rare  even  among  the  poets.  Paul  could  have 
drawn  from  their  writings  descriptions  of  gods  and 
goddesses,  the  verj^  recital  of  which  might  have  covered 
his  learned  audience  with  shame.  But  he  wisely  availed 
himself  of  the  saying  of  Aratus,  to  lift  their  thoughts 
to  subUmer  and  truer  conceptions  of  the  Godhead,  and 
addressed  himself,  not  to  the  masses  who  practically 
regarded  the  graven  image  as  itself  a  god,  but  to  the 
learned  assembly  then  before  him,  who  might  be  sup- 
posed to  regard  the  image  as  only  the  likeness  or 
symbol  of  a  divinity  that  was  unseen.  But  even  this 
higher  and  more  refined  theory  Paul  did  not  regard  as 
capable  of  producing  or  sustaining  a  true  divine  life. 
"  I  perceive  that  in  all  things  ye  are  very  much  given 
to  religion,"  he  said — for  such  is  the  meaning  of  his 
words.  Their  religiousness  was  excessive.  It  was  in 
active  and  fervent  and  constant  exercise.  "When  any 
public  calamity  was  not  removed  by  the  invocation  of 
the  gods  known  to  the  laws,  it  was  customary  to  let 
the  victims  loose  into  the  fields,  or  along  the  public 
ways,  and  wherever  they  stopped  there  to  sacrifice 
them  to  the  '  propitious  unknown  god.' "  But  Paul  was 
not  content.     The  religiousness  of  Athens  had  not  the 


iilJ  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

enlightenment  and  guidance  of  truth  in  its  exercise, 
and  possessed  no  power  to  purify  those  whose  breasts 
it  filled.  It  was  not  the  divine  life.  And  the  apostle 
preached  to  them  not  new  and  better  gods  than  their 
own,  but  THE  ONLY  ONE  GoD,  who  givcth  to  all  life, 
and  breath,  and  all  things. 

There  is  one  species  of  idolatry  which  stands  forth 
as  of  a  somewhat  higher  order  than  all  others.  The 
Persians  erected  neither  statues,  temples,  nor  altars, 
but  regarded  them  with  contempt :  for,  as  we  are  told 
by  Herodotus,  they  did  not  believe,  like  the  Greeks, 
that  the  gods  had  human  forms.  The  name  of  Zeus 
(or  Jupiter)  they  applied  to  the  entire  vault  of  heaven. 
They  sacrificed  to  the  sun  and  moon,  to  the  earth,  fire, 
water,  and  the  winds.  And  who  can  wonder  that 
these  men  of  the  East,  having  once  ceased  to  retain 
God  in  their  knowledge,  should  fall  down  and  worship 
as  the  Supreme,  that  Sun  whose  face  was  hidden  from 
them  by  the  excess  and  splendour  of  his  light.  Not 
the  work  of  their  own  hands,  not  their  weak  fellow, 
they  saw  in  him  the  very  type  of  majesty,  sublimity, 
and  glory,  the  nearest  ajjproximation  to  ubiquity,  and 
u  power  to  both  curse  and  bless,  before  which  it  was 
natural  to  stand  in  awe.  And  if  their  thoughts  were 
still  earthly,  and  if  they,  as  well  as  other  idolaters, 
sought  the  living  among  the  dead,  and  the  infinite 
among  the  finite,  we  cannot  charge  them  with  the 
grossness  and  absurdity  of  worshipping  gold,  and  wood, 
and  stone.  Still  it  was  the  creature,  and  not  the 
Creator,  these  Persians  worshipj)ed,  and  in  such  wor- 
ship their  souls  found  no  divine  life. 

"When  we  cut  off  the  vast  domains  of  idol-worship, 
we  greatly  circumscribe  the  limits  within  which  we 


MOHAMMEDANISM.  23 

arc  to  look  for  the  divine  life.  We  have  to  do  now 
only  with  those  systems  whose  central  doctrine  is  the 
unity,  and  spiritualit}^,  and  invisibility  of  God.  But 
Ave  cannot  assume  that  even  all  these  systems  are 
capable  of  producing  or  fostering  the  true  life  of  God 
in  the  human  soul.  It  may  be,  for  aught  we  can  deter- 
mine beforehand,  that  most  or  all  of  them  are  mixed 
with  elements  that  not  only  do  not  produce  it,  but 
are  fatal  to  its  existence.  For  instance,  it  is  possible 
to  conceive  of  a  god — one,  spiritual  and  invisible — that 
is  malignant,  and  that  delights  in  wrong  and  suifering. 
The  state  of  mind  which  the  worship  of  such  a  god 
w^ill  produce  must  be  essentially  different  from  that 
which  is  produced  by  the  worship  of  the  God  of  love. 
In  each  case  the  maxim  will  be  found  true,  "Like 
God,  like  worshipper."  And  the  mental  opposites 
thus  produced  cannot  be  alike  the  divine  life. 

But  even  where  there  is  no  distinct  apprehension  of 
God  as  malignant,  the  truth  may  be  associated  with 
errors  either  in  the  way  of  excess  or  of  defect,  that  shall 
effectually  prevent  its  proper  action  on  the  soul.  "A 
knowledge  of  God  is  found,"  says  Mr.  Isaac  Taylor,  "to 
avail  little  apart  from  the  knowledge  of  ourselves;  and 
unless  some  genuine  emotions  of  contrition  have  broken 
down  the  pride  of  the  heart,  the  abstract  truth  of  the 
divine  unity  seems  only  to  inflame  our  arrogance,  and 
to  prepare  us  to  be  inexorable  and  cruel.  So  it  was 
in  the  system  of  Mohammed;  it  had  no  true  philan- 
thropy, because  it  had  no  humiliation,  no  penitence, 
and  no  method  of  propitiation.  The  Koran  does 
indeed  teach  and  inspire  a  profound  reverence  toward 
God;  and  it  has  actually  produced  among  its  adherents, 
and  in  an  eminent  degree,  that  prostration  of  the  soul 
in  the  presence  of  the  Supreme  Being  which  becomes 


24  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

rational  creatures.  But  at  this  point  it  stops :  Moslem 
humiliation  has  no  tears,  and  as  it  does  not  reach  the 
depths  of  a  heartfelt  repentance,  so  neither  is  it 
cheered  by  that  gratitude  which  springs  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  pardon.  No  sluices  of  sorrow  are  opened 
by  its  devotions;  the  affections  are  not  softened; 
there  is  a  feverish  heat  among  the  passions ;  but  no 
moisture.  Faith  and  confidence  toward  God  are  bold 
rather  than  submissive,  and  the  soul  of  the  believer, 
basking  in  the  presumption  of  the  divine  favour, 
might  be  compared  to  the  scorched  Arabian  desert, 
arid  as  it  is,  and  unproductive,  and  liable  to  be  heaved 
into  billows  by  the  hurricane." 

"All  religious  history,"  says  the  same  author,  "may 
be  appealed  to  in  attestation  of  this  averment,  that  the 
Christian  doctrine  of  the  forgiveness  of  sins  is  the 
only  one  which  has  ever  generated  an  efficacious  and 
tender-spirited  philanthropy.  It  is  this  doctrine,  and 
no  other,  that  brings  into  combination  the  sensitive- 
ness and  the  zeal  necessary  to  the  vigour  of  practical 
good-will  toward  our  fellow-men.  Exclude  this  truth, 
as  it  is  excluded  by  skeptical  philosophy,  and  then 
philanthropy  becomes  vapid  matter  of  theory  and 
meditation.  Distort  it  with  the  church  of  Eome,  and 
the  zeal  of  charity  is  exchanged  for  the  rancour  of  pro- 
selytism.  Quash  it,  as  the  Koran  does,  and  there 
springs  up  in  the  bosoms  of  men  a  hot  and  active  in- 
tolerance. The  Christian,  and  he  alone,  is  expan- 
sively and  assiduously  compassionate;  and  this  not 
merely  because  he  has  been  formally  enjoined  to  per- 
form the  seven  works  of  mercy,  but  because  his  own 
heart  has  been  softened  throughout  its  very  substance; 
because  tears  have  become  a  usage  of  his  moral  life ; 
and  because  he  has  obtained  a  vivid  consciousness  of 


MOHAMMEDANISM.  25 

that  divine  compassion,  rich  and  free,  which  sheds 
beams  of  hope  upon  all  mankind." 

There  may  have  been  a  period  in  the  mental  history 
of  Mohammed,  a  period  of  meditation  and  fermentation, 
when  the  presentation  of  a  New  Testament,  or  the  ex- 
hibition of  a  pure  Christianity  in  a  practical  form, 
might  have  saved  him  from  those  delusions  by  which 
he  deceived  first  himself  and  then  others,  and  have 
made  him  an  apostle  of  Christ  with  no  sword  but 
that  of  the  Spirit.  And  it  is  certain  that,  however 
much  of  imposture  was  mingled  with  his  pretensions, 
Mohammed  "kindled,  from  side  to  side  of  the  Eastern 
World,  an  extraordinary  abhorrence  of  idol-worship, 
and  actually  cleansed  the  plains  of  Asia  from  the  long- 
settled  impurities  of  polytheism."  But  it  is  equally 
certain  that  he  failed  to  awaken  in  himself,  or  in  his 
followers,  a  divine  life,  if  that  life  involves  in  it  the 
elements  of  humility  and  love,  and  does  not  consist  in 
a  tyrannous,  burning,  and  malignant  fanaticism. 

ISTor  can  we  regard  all  the  religiousness  that  is 
found  within  Christendom,  and  which  possesses  some 
Christian  element,  as  necessarily  constituting  a  divine 
life.  The  mere  formalist  who  says  his  prayers  at  cer- 
tain times,  and  at  all  other  times  forgets  that  there  is 
a  God,  and  the  devout  man  who  gives  to  God  his 
heart,  and  does  it  in  the  market-place  as  well  as  in  the 
closet ;  the  Italian  bandit  who  goes  forth  to  rapine 
and  murder,  and  returns  to  his  unhallowed  cave  to 
give  thanks  to  the  Virgin  Mary  for  his  successes,  and 
the  humble,  honest,  hard-working  man  who  acknow- 
ledges the  kindness  of  Providence  in  the  driest  crust 
upon  his  table,  and  confides  in  the  love  of  that 
Saviour  to  whom  he  has  intrusted  the  most  precious 


26  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

interests  of  his  soul;  tlie  self-righteous  Pharisee  who 
proudly  thanks  God  that  he  is  better  than  other  men, 
and  the  jienitent  publican  who  dares  not  to  lift  his 
eyes  to  heaven,  but  cries,  "  God  be  merciful  to  me  a 
sinner;"  the  bitter,  relentless  persecutor,  whose  eyes 
glare  with  the  lustre  of  hatred  while  he  applies  his 
torch  to  the  fagots  that  are  to  consume  his  victim,  and 
the  martj-r,  fastened  to  the  stake,  with  love  to  his 
enemies  in  his  heart  and  prayer  for  their  forgiveness 
on  his  lips;  these  cannot  be  spiritually  one.  They 
may  bear  the  Christian  name  in  common,  but  in  real 
character  they  are  separated  from  each  other  as  far  as 
the  east  is  distant  from  the  west. 

There  is  one  species  of  religiousness  which  has  pre- 
vailed much  under  a  Christian  form,  as  well  as  under 
others,  and  which  has  made  large  pretensions  to  be 
the  divinest  life  of  all:  we  mean  the  ascetic.  The 
description  which  Cowper  gives  of  the  life  of  a  monk, 
and  his  argument  on  its  true  character,  are  suflScient 
for  our  present  purpose  : — 

"  His  dwelling  a  recess  in  some  rude  rock ; 

Books,  beads,  and  maple-dish,  his  meagre  stock; 

In  shirt  of  hair  and  weeds  of  canvas  dress'd, 

Girt  with  a  bell-rope  that  the  pope  has  bless'd; 

Adust  with  stripes  told  out  for  every  crime, 

And  sore  tormented  long  before  his  time  :    .    .    .    . 
"  His  works,  his  abstinence,  his  zeal  allow'd. 

You  think  him  humble — God  accounts  him  proud. 

High  in  demand,  though  lowly  in  pretence, 

Of  all  his  conduct  this  the  genuine  sense — 

My  penitential  stripes,  my  streaming  blood, 

Have  purchased  heaven,  and  prove  my  title  good." 

The  inspired  records  of  Christianity  make  no  refer- 
ence to  asceticism  except  to  condemn  it.  The  Apostle 
Paul  speaks  of  the  "neglecting  of  the  body"  as  ''having 
a  show  of  wisdom."*     It  was  one  of  "the  command- 

*  Col.  ii.  18,  23. 


ASCETICISM.  27 

nients  and  doctrines  of  men"  against  which  he  solemnly- 
warned  the  church  of  Christ.  It  had  originated  in  one 
of  the  vain  philosophies  of  the  East,  which  taught  that 
the  present  world  had  derived  its  existence  from  two 
causes  or  princijiles,  the  one  good  and  the  other  evil. 
The  former  was  identified  with  light,  or  was  regarded 
as  its  parent  and  the  parent  of  spirit.  The  latter  was 
identified  with  darkness,  or  was  regarded  as  its  parent 
and  the  parent  of  all  matter.  Matter  was,  therefore, 
essentially  evil,  and  the  inference  was  direct  that  the 
salvation  of  man  involved  in  it  the  mortification  of  his 
material  frame,  if  not  its  ultimate  destruction.  This 
theor}^  insinuated  itself,  even  in  the  days  of  the  apos- 
tles, into  the  modes  of  thinking  and  feeling  among 
Christians,  and  at  a  later  period  acquired  an  almost 
universal  ascendency.  ''The  voluntary  (or  artificial) 
humiliations — the  worshipping  of  angels — the  sancti- 
monious abstinences — the  human  traditions — the  spe- 
cious piety,  and  the  idle  tormenting  of  the  body;  in  a 
word,  all  the  elements  of  the  great  apostasy,  are  desig- 
nated by  Paul  in  the  most  distinct  manner;  or  as  if 
the  many-coloured  corruptions  of  the  tenth  century 
had  vividly  passed  before  the  eye  of  the  writer.  How 
healthy  is  that  piety  and  that  morality  which  he  recom- 
mends in  opposition  to  all  such  absurdities  I" 

The  practices  which  the  spirit  of  asceticism  has 
generated  in  the  Christian  church  have  not  been 
more  salutary,  morally,  than  those  to  which  it  has 
given  rise  in  heathendom.  "Turn  eastward  now" — 
we  resume  the  quotation  from  Cowper : — 

"  Turn  eastward  now,  and  fancy  shaU  apply 
To  your  weak  sight  her  telescopic  eye. 
The  Brahmia  kindles  on  his  own  bare  head 
The  sacred  fire,  self-torturing  his  trade. 


28  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

His  voluntary  pains,  severe  and  long, 
Would  give  a  barbarous  air  to  British  song; 
No  grand  inquisitor  could  worse  invent, 
Than  he  contrives  to  suffer  well  content. 

"  Which  is  the  saintlier  worthy  of  the  two  ? 

Past  all  dispute,  yon  anchorite,  say  you. 

Your  sentence  and  mine  differ.    What's  a  name  ? 

I  say  the  Brahmin  has  the  fairer  claim. 

If  suffering  Scripture  nowhere  recommends, 
■  Devised  by  self  to  answer  selfish  ends. 

Give  saintship,  then  all  Europe  must  agree, 

Ten  starveling  hermits  suffer  less  than  he.'  » 


But  let  us  now  see  whether  we  may  not  find  a  his- 
torical example  of  the  true  divine  life. 

Saul  of  Tarsus;  r>     n  m 

born  about  B.  c.     'iho  name  of  Saul   of  Tarsus,    Paul 

2;  diedA.D.  66.  .       „         .,. 

the  Apostle,  is  lamiliar  to  us  as  a  house- 
hold word,  and  presents  itself  at  once,  as  one  w^hich 
exhibits  a  most  instructive  instance,  first,  of  a  spurious 
religiousness,  and  then  of  a  true  divine  life.  It  furnishes 
a  test  of  the  fictitious  and  the  genuine.  And  we  have 
only  to  study  the  very  comjDlete  portrait  which  he 
has  drawn  of  himself  to  have  a  good  understanding 
of  both. 


*  The  following  statement  is  from  the  pen  of  an  East  Indian  missionary 
in  1854.  "  On  approaching  a  ghfit  leading  down  to  the  river,  a  miserable  object 
arrested  our  attention.  It  was  a  devotee  seated  by  the  embers  of  a  slow  fire. 
His  right  arm  presented  a  sickening  spectacle.  It  was  erect  over  his  head,  and  was 
shockingly  emaciated.  The  hand  was  closed,  but  the  nails  of  the  fingers  stretched 
beyond  it  five  or  six  inches.  In  this  erect  position  the  limb  had  remained  rigidly 
fixed  for  eleven  years,  and  by  this  act  of  self-mortification  the  wretched  man  vainly 
hoped  to  be  saved. 

"On  descending  the  steps  we  passed  another  devotee,  who  was  standing  with 
one  foot  on  the  ground  and  the  other  on  a  swing  raised  from  two  to  three  feet 
high.  Here  he  stands  night  and  day.  He  shifts  his  feet  occasionally,  and  thus 
prevents  the  two  limbs  from  becoming  immovable.  lie  never  lies  down,  nor 
obtains  rest  or  sleep  except  such  as  he  can  obtain  here.  Both  these  victims 
of  idolatry  imagined  that  by  such  practices  of  asceticism  they  would  acquire 
boundless  merit,  so  that  their  sins  would  he  forgiven  and  themselves  admitted 
into  heaven." 


SAUL   OF   TARSUS.  29 

Though  born  in  Tarsus,  and  familiar  from  childhood 
with  heathen  spectacles,  Saul,  the  son  of  a  Jew  who  was 
a  "Pharisee  of  the  Pharisees,''  was  brought  up  from 
his  twelfth  or  thirteenth  year  amid  the  associations  of 
the  holy  city,  and  under  the  tuition  of  one  who  could 
appreciate  his  ingenuous,  bold,  and  inquiring  disposi- 
tion. He  read  the  history  of  his  fathers,  the  most 
wonderful  that  has  ever  been  lived  or  written,  in  the 
very  streets  of  Jerusalem,  in  the  hills  whereon  it 
stood,  and  in  the  valleys  by  which  it  was  intersected 
and  surrounded.  And  his  susceptible  heart  was 
subjected,  probably  for  twenty  years,  to  the  influence 
of  these  scenes;  while  his  active  mind  gave  all  its 
energy  to  the  study  of  the  Scriptures,  and  of  the 
traditional  interpretation  of  them,  of  which  Gamaliel 
was  the  expounder.  AYe  have  his  own  testimony  that 
he  outsti'ipped  his  cotemporaries  in  the  school  of 
Gamaliel  in  zeal  for  the  traditions  of  the  elders,  and 
in  the  knowledge  of  that  Judaism  which  was  more 
traditional  than  Biblical. 

Saul  comes  before  us  historically  first,  in  connection 
with  the  stoning  of  Stephen,  the  protomartyr  of  the 
Christian  church.  He  gave  his  "vote"  against  this 
early  confessor  of  the  Christian  faith;  being,  not  im- 
probably, already  a  member  of  the  Sanhedrim.  And 
we  are  at  once  struck  by  the  contrast  which  he  now 
presents  to  his  preceptor.  "Eefrain  from  these  men," 
Gamaliel  had  said  a  few  weeks  or  months  before,  "  and 
let  them  alone :  for  if  this  counsel  or  this  work  be  of 
men,  it  will  come  to  naught :  but  if  it  be  of  God,  yc 
cannot  overthrow  it;  lest  haply  ye  be  found  even  to 
fight  against  God."  But  Saul  was  "exceeding  mad" 
against  the  followers  of  Jesus,  and  "made  havoe  of 
the   church."     Whether  the  contrast  is  simply  that 


30  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

between  prudent  age  and  impetuous  youth,  or  that 
between  a  timid  worldly  policy  and  a  fearless  godly 
zeal,  or  that  between  the  large  and  liberal  views  of  a 
far-reaching  mind  and  the  bitter  intolerance  of  an 
honest  but  unenlightened  spirit;  or  whether  it  is  simply 
a  matter  of  constitutional  temperament,  it  is  only  such 
as  often  appears  between  master  and  disciple.  If  in 
nothing  else,  yet  in  practical  zeal  for  the  Judaism  which 
Saul  had  learned  from  Gamaliel,  the  disciple  in  this 
instance  excelled  the  master  as  he  did  his  fellow- 
disciples. 

Having  done  his  utmost  in  Jerusalem,  Saul  hastened 
to  Damascus  to  execute  a  mission  of  destruction 
there.  But  he  entered  the  Syrian  capital  a  very 
different  man  from  what  he  was  when  he  left  the 
capital  of  Judea.  He  was  now  a  new  man;  no 
longer  a  Pharisee,  but  a  Christian.  The  most  obvious 
difference  between  the  old  man  and  the  new  is,  that 
the  old  man  disbelieved  the  claims  of  Jesus  of 
Nazareth  to  be  honoured  as  the  Messiah;  the  new 
believed  in  them  implicitly.  And  so  far  it  may  bo 
called  a  change  of  opinion,  his  old  opinions  having 
been  held  as  honestly  as  his  new.  But  we  shall  find 
that  with  this  change  of  opinion  there  was  an  entire 
revolution  in  the  moral  habit  of  his  soul — a  revolu- 
tion which  is  best  expressed  in  his  own  words: — "If 
any  man  be  in  Christ,  he  is  a  new  creature;  old 
things  are  passed  away;  behold,  all  things  are  become 
new."  Before  his  conversion  to  Christianity  he  was  a 
fanatic  of  the  highest  order.  The  fervid  passion  which 
filled  his  breast  was  one  of  malignant  and  murderous 
hatred.  The  passion  which  filled  his  breast  after 
his  conversion,  and  which  impelled  him  from  shore 
to  shore  to  preach  ChTist,  was  equally  fervid;  but  it 


Saul's  virtue  and  zeal.  31 

vras  one  of  pure,  intense,  and  unwearied  love.  And 
herein  consists  the  difference  between  fanaticism  and 
piety.  Before  his  conversion  he  was  proud,  stood 
erect  before  God,  as  one  that  was  blameless  touching 
the  righteousness  which  the  law,  as  he  then  understood 
i*:,  required  of  him;  after  his  conversion,  and  in  all  his 
s  ibsequent  life,  there  is  no  trait  of  his  character 
more  marked  than  the  deep  humility  with  which  he 
prostrated  his  soul  before  God;  and  that  not  merely 
as  a  creature  conscious  of  his  littleness,  but  as  a 
transgressor  of  the  divine  law,  conscious  of  his  sins. 
To  some  this  change  in  the  hidden  man  of  the  heart 
may  seem  a  small  thing;  but  they  who  have  any 
insight  into  the  .springs  of  action,  and  can  appreciate 
the  leavening  power  of  hatred  and  pride  on  the  one 
hand,  and  of  love  and  humility  on  the  other,  will 
require  no  justification  of  Paxil's  words — "Old  things 
are  passed  away;  behold,  all  things  are  become  new." 
But  yet  there  are  several  characteristics  of  the 
earlier  religion  of  Saul  of  Tarsus  which  may  seem 
to  raise  it  to  the  honour  of  a  divine  life.  His 
morals  were  blameless.  His  "manner  of  life  from 
his  youth"  was  such  as  to  bear  the  scrutiny  of  the 
most  keen-eyed  malice.  There  were  no  youthful 
follies  or  indiscretions  whose  memories  could  be  raked 
from  the  dust  to  dishonour  him.  His  time  and 
thoughts  had  been  engrossed  by  his  studies  and  his 
religious  duties.  More  than  this,  he  was  not  only 
virtuous,  but,  in  a  sense,  godly.  His  religion  was 
no  heartless  formalism;  he  was  "zealous  toward 
God."  And  the  God  toward  whom  he  was  moved 
with  zeal  was  not  such  a  deity  as  the  fanatical 
populace  of  Ephesus  were  zealous  for  when  they 
shouted,  "Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians:"  it  was 


32  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

the  One,  True,  Everlasting;  the  Jehovah  of  the  Old 
Testament,  in  whom  we  live,  and  move,  and  have  our 
being.  Shall  we  then  deny  the  credit  of  a  divine  life 
to  one  whose  virtue  is  blameless,  and  whose  heart  is 
the  seat  of  a  burning  zeal  for  God  ? 

Let  us  hear  his  own  judgment  on  this  question  : 
"I  was  a  blasphemer,  and  a  persecutor,  and  injuri- 
ous." True,  his  apologist  may  reply,  you  blasphemed, 
you  spoke  evil  of  a  name  which  you  conscientiously 
regarded  as  identified  with  false  pretensions.  True, 
you  persecuted  those  who  believed  in  that  name,  but 
you  did  it  with  a  good  conscience;  you  verily  thought 
with  yourself  that  you  ought  to  do  it,  and  in  doing 
it  you  sincerely  imagined  that  you  were  doing  God 
service.  True,  you  were  injurious;  but  if  the  sect 
of  the  Nazarenes  were  what  you  judged  it  to  be, 
that  Avould  be  no  reproach;  the  more  injury  you 
inflicted  on  it  the  better.  The  worst  that  can  be  said 
of  you,  Paul,  is  that  you  were  too  hasty  in  your  judg- 
ment, and  yielded  too  readily  to  the  impetuosity  of 
your  nature;  even  if  your  opinion  of  the  Nazarenes 
were  correct,  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  have  fol- 
lowed the  counsel  of  Gamaliel,  and  to  have  "let  them 
alone,"  for  a  season  at  least,  that  it  might  be  seen 
w^hether  their  doctrine  were  of  men  or  of  God;  but 
as  it  is,  even  your  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side;  it 
was  the  fire  of  a  true  godliness  that  burned  on  the 
altar  of  your  heart,  and  all  that  you  have  to  reproach 
yourself  for  is  an  error  of  judgment. 

To  this  apology  Paul's  own  reply  is  severely  brief 
and  conclusive:  "I  was  the  chief  of  sinners."  Many 
others  have  described  themselves  in  the  same  words, 
and  in  his  case  as  well  as  in  theirs,  the  words  may  not 
imply  an  absolute  supremacy  in  guilt,  but  a  deep  con- 


Saul's  ignorance.  33 

sciousncss  of  such  guilt  as  one  can  scarcely  imagine  to 
exist,  where  he  cannot  see  it  as  he  sees  the  evil  that 
is  in  his  own  bosom.  We  accept  this  interpretation, 
and  do  not  account  that  Paul  meant  to  say,  that  of 
all  the  sinners  that  have  ever  trodden  this  earth  he 
was  absolutely  the  greatest.  But  at  the  least  he 
meant  to  say  that,  religious  as  he  was  in  some  sense, 
earnestly  religious  as  he  was,  his  early  life  was  exceed- 
ing sinful;  his  opposition  to  the  name  and  followers 
of  Christ  was  deeply  criminal.  But  how  could  that 
be?  It  is  true  that  he  cursed  the  name  of  Jesus, 
that  he  pronounced  on  it  all  the  anathemas  of  the 
law  and  of  Jewish  tradition ;  and  the  rude  insolence 
of  those  who  spat  on  the  face  of  the  Son  of  God  and 
buffeted  him  was  in  reality  nothing  to  the  malignity 
with  which  he  pursued  it.  But  then  he  acted  in  iin- 
belief,  and  his  unbelief  sprang  from  ignorance ;  had  he 
known  the  Lord  of  glory,  he  would  have  worshipped 
and  served  him. 

At  this  point  the  question  arises,  whether  his  igno- 
rance was  innocent  or  criminal.  So  far  as  a  man  does 
not  possess  the  means  of  knowledge,  he  cannot  be  ac- 
countable for  the  want  of  it.  But  if  a  man's  ignorance 
result  from  his  neglect  of  means  or  from  an  indisposi- 
tion to  receive  the  truth,  he  must  be  held  responsible 
before  God.  Now,  where  was  Saul  of  Tarsus  all  those 
years  that  Jesus  taught  and  wrought  mighty  works  in 
the  synagogues  and  cities  of  Judea  and  Galilee  ?  Was 
he  still  in  the  school  of  Gamaliel,  so  intent  on  the 
study  of  the  traditions  of  the  fathers  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  great  and  wonderful  things  that  were 
taking  place  at  his  very  door,  and  that  were  moving 
the  heart  of  his  nation  to  its  inmost  depths  ?  Or  had 
he  gone  to  Tarsus  to  live  with  his  kindred,  and  to 

3 


34  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

exercise  the'  functions  of  a  rabbi  in  a  foreign  syna- 
gogue ?  We  cannot  tell.  He  may  or  he  may  not  have 
seen  the  face  of  Jesus,  radiant  as  it  ever  was  with  love, 
or  heard  from  his  lips  the  w^ords  of  a  higher  wisdom 
than  Gamaliel  ever  uttered,  or  witnessed  some  of  those 
miracles  which  declared  him  to  be  the  Son  of  God. 
But  the  works  of  Jesus  were  not  done  in  a  corner;  and 
it  might  be  said  to  Saul,  "Art  thou  only  a  stranger  in 
Jerusalem,  and  hast  not  known  the  things  which  are 
come  to  pass  there  in  these  days  ?"  He  could  not  fail 
to  know  enough  to  impose  on  him  the  obligation  of 
inquiry.  Public  report  might  be  very  imperfect ;  but 
even  its  tales,  distorted  as  they  were,  contained  pre- 
sumptive evidence  that  Jesus  of  Nazareth  was  a  teacher 
sent  from  God.  And  the  heart  in  which  there  was  no 
secret  or  sinful  disinclination  to  the  truth  of  God 
would  long  to  know  whether  God  was  not  about  to 
redeem  his  people.  And  Christ  has  told  us  the  issue 
of  a  single-minded  and  unbiassed  inquiry  : — "  If  any 
man  will  do  his  (the  Father's)  will,  he  shall  know  of 
the  doctrine,  whether  it  be  of  God,  or  whether  I  speak 
of  myself." 

But  what  evil  bias,  or  other  moral  cause  of  error, 
could  there  have  been  in  the  heart  of  one  so  con- 
scientious and  so  zealous  towards  God  as  was  Saul  of 
Tarsus  ?  We  need  not  imagine  any  other  than  that 
which  was  common  to  his  countrymen,  intensified, 
perhaps,  by  his  constitutional  earnestness.  "  I  bear 
them  record,"  he  wrote,  many  years  after  his  conver- 
sion, "that  they  have  a  zeal  of  God,  but  not  according 
to  knowledge.  For  they,  being  ignorant  of  God's 
righteousness,  and  going  about  to  establish  their  own 
righteousness,  have  not  submitted  themselves  unto  the 
righteousness  of  God.     For  Christ  is  the  end  of  the 


Saul's  Pharisaism.  35 

law  for  righteousness  to  every  one  that  believeth."* 
Saul,  and  his  countrymen  in  general,  felt  a  proud  con- 
fidence in  the  divine  call  by  which  they  were  separated 
from  the  nations,  and  in  their  descent  from  Abraham, 
and  were  ignorant  of  their  own  deep  sinfulness  before 
God.  Their  self-love  and  earthliness  veiled  from  them 
the  purity  and  spirituality  of  the  moral  law  under 
which  they  were  placed.  And  no  wonder  that,  thus 
blinded  and  ignorant,  they  laboured  to  establish  a 
ground  of  their  own  whereon  they  might  stand  just 
before  God,  and  resented  and  repelled  a  teaching 
whose  faintest  whispers  were  sufficient  to  forewarn 
them  that,  when  fully  known,  it  would  humble  them 
in  the  dust. 

But  those  states  of  mind  to  which  we  thus  ascribe 
the  ignorance  of  the  Jews — pride,  self-love,  and  earth- 
liness— are  in  themselves  criminal.  The  "lusts"  which 
unconverted  men  "  fulfil"  include  "  the  desires  of  the 
flesh  and  of  the  mind," — an  expression  on  which  some 
light  may  be  thrown  by  certain  words  that  are  used 
by  the  Apostle  James.  He  speaks  of  a  wisdom  which 
Cometh  not  down  from  above,  but  is  "earthly,  sensual, 
devilish."f  The  devil's  sins  are  very  difierent  in  kind 
from  those  that  are  committed  by  the  felons  and  for- 
nicators of  this  world ;  and  yet  he  may  be  denomi- 
nated, without  reserve,  "  the  chief  of  sinners."  His 
sins  are  pride  and  hatred,  and  those  courses  hostile  to 
God  and  man  to  which  these  evil  passions  drive  him. 
Pharisaism  was  commonly  earthly  and  sensual;  but 
above  all  it  was — (and,  if  the  expression  seems  too 
strong,  we  plead  the  authoi-ity  of  the  Apostle  James) 
it  was  devilish ;  its  prevailing  characters  were  pride 
and  hatred. 

*  Kom.  X.  2-4.  t  Jiuiies  iii.  15. 


36  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

One  almost  trembles  to  cany  tliis  thought  to  its 
legitimate  conclusion;  but  we  must.  "Who  then,  of 
all  mankind,  is  likest  to  the  devil  ?  Not  the  man  who 
wallows  in  the  mire  of  sensuality, — for  that  the  devil 
cannot  do, — but  he  who  is  most  proud  and  most  full 
of  hatred  to  God  and  man,  whose  intellect  rebels 
most  fiercely  against  God's  truth,  and  whose  heart 
is  most  opposed  to  God's  will.  The  "chief  of 
sinners"  among  mankind  are  not  the  tenants  of 
jails  and  j)enitentiaries,  but  those  who  most  resemble 
the  first  sinner  in  "fulfilling  the  desires  of  the 
mind." 

When  Paul  knew  himself  and  understood  the  law 
of  God,  he  did  not  plead,  in  arrest  of  judgment  on  his 
character,  that  his  morals  were  blameless  in  all  the 
social  relations  of  life,  that  he  was  sincere  in  all  his 
religious  duties,  yea,  that  in  his  most  violent  proceed- 
ings against  the  name  of  Jesus  he  was  moved  by  zeal 
for  God.  His  charge  against  himself  was  not  that  he 
was  all  the  time  unenlightened ; — the  mere  absence  of 
knowledge  would  not  have  made  him  the  chief  of 
sinners ; — nor  was  it  that  his  best  doings  were  imper- 
fect and  mixed  with  sin ;  it  was  virtually  that  in  him 
there  had  dwelt  no  good  thing,  that  the  root  and 
spring  of  his  then  spiritual  life  was  unmixed  evil.  He 
had  no  outward  criminalities  to  palliate  and  no  hy- 
pocrisy to  be  ashamed  of  But,  now  that  the  light  of 
God's  law  and  love  had  shone  upon  his  soul,  he  saw 
that  he  was  filled  with  spiritual  pride  and  self- 
righteousness,  and  consequent  hatred  to  the  true  will 
of  God.  And  now  he  was  not  less  disposed  than  the 
publican,  in  our  Lord's  parable,  to  smite  upon  his 
breast  and  exclaim,  "  God  be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner." 

On  either  side  of  the  great  crisis  by  which  the 


Saul's  conversion.  37 

history  of  the  Pharisee  is  separated  from  the  history 
of  the  Christian  in  Saul  of  Tarsus,  we  find  several 
things  that  are  common  to  both, — outward  virtue, 
entire  sincerity,  a  certain  zeal  for  God,  and  constitu- 
tional ardour.  But  these,  springing  from  the  soil  of 
Pharisaism,  inspired  and  impelled  by  its  pride  and 
selfishness,  produced  only  a  bitter  fanaticism ;  spring- 
ing from  the  soil  of  Christianity,  inspired  and  impelled 
by  its  humility  and  love,  they  were  the  manifestations 
and  instruments  of  a  pure  divine  life. 

The  nature  of  the  crisis  itself  in  which  the  Phari- 
saism of  Saul  perished  and  his  Christianity  was  bom 
will  instruct  us  further  in  the  difference  between  a 
spurious  religiousness  and  a  true  piety.  The  outward 
prodigies  which  accompanied  it  are  well  known.  The 
young  rabbi,  fresh  from  the  school  of  Gamaliel,  with 
less  worldly  wisdom  than  his  master,  or  less  breadth 
and  comprehensiveness  of  view,  or  whatever  else  it 
was,  was  hasting  to  Damascus,  in  an  agony  of  soul,  to 
destroy  the  followers  of  that  Jesus  whom  they  affirmed 
to  be  alive  and  in  glory.  "When  the  towers  and  gar- 
dens of  the  great  city  burst  upon  his  view,  he  was 
without  misgiving  or  mental  conflict  in  reference  to  the 
purposes  of  his  journey.  His  victims  seemed  already 
in  his  hand,  when  suddenly  there  shone  round  about 
him  a  light  of  unearthly  brightness,  transcending  the 
glare  of  the  noontide  .sun.  "  To  his  fellow-travellers 
nothing  more  was  vouchsafed  than  the  perception  of  a 
supernatural  splendour  and  sound  coming  from  the 
heavens;  yet  for  himself  there  stood  forth  in  the  midst 
of  the  brightness  a  personal  form,  and  the  sound 
shaped  itself  into  distinct  words  in  the  Hebrew  tongue." 
And  the  words  were,  "Saul,  Saul,  why  persecutest 
thou   me?"     The  central  point  of  the  whole  inner 


38  THE   DIVINE  LIFE. 

being  of  Saul  up  to  this  moment  was  the  conviction 
that  he  ought  to  persecute  unto  the  death  what  he 
regarded  as  an  impious  sect.  And  "  precisely  on  this 
centre  do  the  words  of  Jesus  strike  like  a  thunder- 
bolt." "  Saul  might,  he  had  thought,  well  hope  to 
receive  the  blessing  and  approbation  of  God  on  his 
holy  work ;  and  now,  behold,  it  is  accursed !  He  is 
apprized  that  his  supposed  zeal  for  Jehovah  the  Lord 
of  heaven  was  in  fact  a  zeal  against  the  Lord  of  heaven, 
for  with  his  own  ears,  and  in  his  inmost  soul,  he  hears 
that  the  Lord  of  heaven  is  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  In  the 
disciples  of  Jesus  he  had  hitherto  seen  the  enemies  of 
Jehovah,  the  schismatics  who  blasphemed  and  sought 
to  overthrow  the  law  and  the  sanctuary;  and  now  he 
is  constrained  to  hear,  and  could  not  withdraw  from 
the  sound  of  the  words  that  penetrated  his  very  inmost 
soul,  declaring  that  these  supposed  enemies  of  Jehovah 
were  so  wonderfully  and  intimately  associated  with 
the  Lord  of  heaven  that  he  speaks  of  them  not  merely 
as  his  people,  or  his,  but  so  identifies  himself  with 
them,  although  gleaming  in  the  light  of  heaven  and 
casting  to  the  earth  all  that  opposes  itself,  he  yet 
designates  as  his  own  the  sufteriugs  inflicted  on  those 
who  acknowledged  him." 

All  that  the  history  informs  lis  of  the  immediate 
result  of  the  vision  and  words  of  Jesus  on  the  mind  of 
Saul  is  the  fact  of  the  nnreseiwed  surrender  of  himself 
to  that  Lord  who  had  thus  marvellously  arrested 
him : — "Lord,  what  wilt  thou  have  me  to  do?" 

The  humbled  man  rose  from  the  earth,  and,  finding 
himself  actually  ''  blinded  by  excess  of  light,"  he  was 
led  by  the  hand,  gentle  as  a  lamb,  into  the  city  which 
he  expected  to  have  entered  as  a  very  lion.  And 
there  <'  he  was  three  days  without  sight,  and  neither 


SAUL    IN    SOLITUDE.  6\} 

did  eat  nor  drink."  Whether  his  abstinence  was  entire 
or  partial,  whether  it  was  the  voluntary  expression  of 
his  soul's  humiliation,  or  resulted  from  a  physical  in- 
disposition to  food,  produced  by  mental  agitation,  we 
know  not.  But  these  three  sightless  days,  spent  in 
solitude  and  silence,  were  spiritually  the  most  event- 
ful and  important  of  his  life.  "While  outward  vision 
was  denied  him,  his  prayer  was  doubtless  like  that  of 
the  blind  poet  of  a  later  age : — 

"  So  much  the  rather  Thou,  celestial  Light, 
Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 
Irradiate;  there  plant  eyes,  all  mist  from  thence 
Purge  and  disperse,  that  I  may  see  and  tell 
Of  things  iuTisible  to  mortal  sight." 

And  God,  who  commanded  the  light  to  shine  out  of 
darkness,  shone  in  his  heart,  to  give  him  the  light  of 
the  knowledge  of  his  glory  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ. 
This  is  not  our  conjecture,  but  his  own  statement. 
Writing  to  the  churches  of  Galatia  many  years  after, 
he  said,  "I  certify  you,  brethren,  that  the  gospel  which 
was  preached  of  me  is  not  after  man.  For  I  neither 
received  it  of  man,  neither  was  I  taught  it,  but  by  the 
revelation  of  Jesus  Christ.  .  .  .  When  it  pleased  God, 
who  separated  me  from  my  mother's  womb,  and  called 
me  b}^  his  grace,  to  reveal  his  Son  in  me,  that  I  might 
preach  him  among  the  heathen;  immediately  I  con- 
ferred not  with  flesh  and  blood."* 

The  period  of  this  "calling"  by  the  grace  of  God, 
and  of  that  "revelation"  which  was  made  to  him  by 
Jesus  Christ  without  the  intervention  of  any  human 
teacher,  is  identified  in  the  passage  from  which  we 
quote  with  his  first  stay,  at  Damascus.  It  was  then, 
and  especially  during  those  three  days  which  preceded 

*  Gal.  i.  11, 12, 15, 16. 


40  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

the  visit  of  Ananias,  that  Saul  was  "called,"  by  the  grace 
of  God,  and  infalliblj^  taught  by  Christ  himself  that 
gospel  which  he  ever  afterwards  preached  among  the 
Gentiles.  We  cannot  describe  the  fermentation  of  his 
thoughts  when  Old  Testament  Scriptures  crowded  into 
his  mind  in  their  new  and  true  light.  We  cannot  follow 
his  inner  man  step  by  step  in  its  progress  out  of  the 
kingdom  of  Satan  into  the  kingdom  of  God's  dear  Son. 
The  veil  has  not  been  withdrawn  from  those  dark  mys- 
terious struggles  through  which  Saul  passed  in  his  new 
birth;  but  enough  has  been  intimated  to  enable  us 
to  discern  the  secret  which  it  shrouds.  The  law  of 
Moses  had  been  the  end  and  aim  of  all  his  thoughts 
and  efforts,  and  now  that  which,  measured  by  that 
standard  as  he  understood  it,  he  had  held  to  be 
the  best  and  holiest  course,  had  been  branded  as 
an  impious  crime.*  Had  he  then  really  not  under- 
stood that  which  had  been  the  subject  of  so  much 
study  and  the  object  of  so  fervent  a  devotion?  His 
startled  soul  must  have  cast  an  anxious  glance  at  the 
law,  and  then  it  must  have  been  clear  to  him  that 
hitherto  he  had  only  looked  upon  the  curtains,  but 
had  never  penetrated  the  sanctuary  itself.  It  had 
happened  unto  him,  as  unto  the  sect  of  the  Pharisees 
generally,  who  with  their  prejudices  and  additions  had 
made  void  its  holy  meaning,  who  had  taken  the  out- 
ward things  of  the  law  to  be  its  most  essential  require- 
ments, while  they  lightly  regarded  its  great  commands 
which  were  directed  to  the  heart.  But  now  at  length 
he  becomes  aware  that  the  law  is  not  satisfied  with 
works  of  outward  righteousness,  but  demands  a  temper 


*  Several  thoughts  and  sentences  in  this  paragraph  are  taken  in  substance  from 
Baumgarten  on  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  vol.  i.  2:iS. 


LAW   AND    LOVE.  41 

pure  and  free  from  evil  desires.  The  brief  command- 
ment, "Thou  shalt  not  covet,"  now  became  to  him  so 
highly  significant,  that  by  occasion  of  it  he  discerned 
the  true  nature  of  the  law  as  spiritual,  and  of  sin  as 
having  its  seat  in  the  heart.*  While  his  soul  confronted 
these  discoveries  of  the  true  import  and  requirements 
of  the  divine  law,  he  became  conscious  of  the  intense 
opposition  of  his  self-will  to  the  will  of  God;  and  at 
the  same  time  ho  felt  himself  a  dead  man,  for  "Cursed 
is  every  one  that  continueth  not  in  all  things  which 
are  written  in  the  book  of  the  law  to  do  them."  The 
conclusion  was  inevitable  that  by  the  deeds  of  the 
law  no  flesh  could  be  justified  before  God.  And  now 
for  the  first  time  Saul's  eyes  were  opened  to  the  chasm 
that  yawned  between  him  and  God;  for  himself,  he 
feels  that  he  is  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  abyss,  but 
Jehovah  he  beholds  at  the  immeasurable  height  of  his 
heavenly  holiness.  How  shall  man  be  just  with  God? 
The  answer  to  this  question  was  given  to  Paul,  "not 
by  man,  but  by  the  revelation  of  Jesus  Christ."  He 
who  knew  no  sin  was  made  sin  for  us,  that  we  might 
be  made  the  righteousness  of  God  in  him :  Christ  hath 
redeemed  us  from  the  curse  of  the  law,  being  made  a 
curse  for  us :  We  are  justified  freely  by  the  grace  of 
God,  through  the  redemption  that  is  in  Christ  Jesus, 
%vhom  God  hath  set  forth  to  be  a  propitiation  through 
faith  in  his  blood,  to  declare  his  righteousness  for  the 
remission  of  sins :  that  he  might  be  just,  and  the  justi- 
fier  of  him  who  believeth  in  Jesus.  These  sayings  are 
.aken  from  three  of  the  Epistles  of  Paul,f  and  the 
doctrine  which  they  embody  is  the  very  life-blood  of 
the  gospel  which  he  preached  among  all  nations.   And 

*  Rom.  Tii.  7.  \2  Cor.  t.  21 ;  Gal.  iii.  13 ;  Rom.  iii.  24-26. 


42  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

such  was  the  importance  -which  he  attached  to  it,  that 
when  certain  teachers  led  the  Galatians,  not  indeed  to 
deny  it,  but  to  add  to  it  what  he  regarded  in  essence 
inconsistent  with  it,  (namely,  the  doctrine  of  the 
necessity  of  certain  rites  in  order  to  acceptance  with 
God,)  he  denounced  the  compound  as  "another  gospel, 
which  is  not  another."* 

It  was  in  those  sad  sightless  days  which  Saul  spent 
at  Damascus  that  the  doctrine  of  an  atonement  by 
the  death  of  the  Son  of  God,  and  of  the  free  pardon 
of  sin  through  that  atonement,  shone  into  his  mind 
by  the  "revelation  of  Jesus  Christ,"  and  immediately 
he  counted  as  loss  those  things  which  heretofore  he 
had  deemed  his  gain, — his  pure  Hebi'ewism,  his  earnest 
Pharisaism,  his  moral  and  ritual  blamelessness, — and 
cast  away  all  his  confidence  in  them,  that  he  might  be 
found  in  Christ,  not  having  on  his  own  righteousness, 
but  that  which  is  by  the  faith  of  Christ.f 

This  gospel  was  the  means  of  a  twofold  deliverance 
to  his  soul:  it  removed  the  burden  of  guilt  which 
oppressed  his  conscience,  and  at  the  same  time  slew 
the  pride  and  self-will  of  his  heart.  Being  justified 
by  faith,  he  had  peace  with  God  through  his  Lord 
Jesus  Christ.  He  was  a  new  man.  Henceforward 
the  love  of  Christ  constrained. him  to  live  not  unto 
himself,  but  unto  him  who  had  died  for  him.  And 
we  know  how  zealous  for  God,  how  tender  towards 
man,  that  love  made  him.  The  divine  life,  as  he  now 
experienced  it,  cannot  be  better  described  than  in  his 
own  words: — "We  are  the  circumcision — the  true 
Israel  and  church  of  God — which  worship  God  in  the 
spirit,  and  rejoice  in  Christ  Jesus,  and  have  no  con- 

*  Gal.  i.  6,  7.  t  Pliil-  "»■  4,  9. 


MARTIN   LUTHER.  43 

fidencc  in  the  flesh."  "God  hath  not  given  ns  the 
spirit  of  fear;  but  of  power,  and  of  love,  and  of  a 
sound  mind."* 


At  the  distance  of  more  than  fourteen  centuries  from 
the  time  of  Paul,  there  was  born  in 
Germany  one  whose  name  is  only  less  bor^atEisilben; 
widely  known  than  his,  and  in  whose  i483!dfc^dat°tife 
inner  history  we  find  a  remarkable  re-  rurrymhaMa 
acting  of  the  experiences  through  which 
the  apostle  passed  into  the  enjoyment  of  the  divine 
life.  The  plains  of  Mansfeldt  and  the  banks  of  the 
Vipper  were  the  scenes  of  the  earliest  sports  and  acti- 
vities of  Martin  Luther.  During  the  earliest  years 
of  his  life  his  parents  were  very  poor.  They  were 
worthy  and  virtuous  people,  but  their  domestic  disci- 
pline was  severe.  On  one  occasion  Martin's  mother 
whipped  him  for  a  mere  trifle  till  the  blood  came. 
And  at  school  the  poor  child  was  treated  with  equal 
severity.  His  master  flogged  him  fifteen  times  in  one 
day.  "It  is  right,"  said  Luther,  relating  this  fact, 
"it  is  right  to  punish  children,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
we  must  love  them."  With  such  an  education  Luthei 
early  learned  to  despise  the  attractions  of  a  self-indul- 
gent life.")" 

Martin  was  taught,  in  the  school  of  Mansfeldt,  the 
heads  of  the  Catechism,  the  Ten  Commandments,  the 
Apostles'  Creed,  and  the  Lord's  Prayer,  with  some 
other  forms  of  prayer  and  some  hymns.  But  the  only 
religious  feeling  which  he  manifested  at  this  time  was 
fear.    Every  time  he  heard  Christ  spoken  of  he  turned 


*  Phil.  Hi.  3;  2  Tim.  i.  7. 

t  In  this  sketch  we  follow  mainli'  the  nanative  of  D'Aubi^ne. 


44  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

pale  with  terror,  for  he  had  been  represented  to  him 
only  as  an  angry  Judge.  This  servile  fear  is  far  removed 
from  true  religion. 

John  Luther,  in  conformity  with  his  predilections, 
resolved  to  make  his  son  a  scholar,  and  sent  him,  when 
fourteen  years  old,  to  the  school  of  the  Franciscans  at 
Magdeburg.  Martin's  life  at  Magdeburg  was  a  severe 
apprenticeship.  Without  friends  or  protectors,  he 
trembled  in  the  presence  of  his  masters,  and  in  his 
play-hours  he  and  some  children,  as  poor  as  himself, 
with  difficulty  begged  their  bread.  It  was  the  same 
afterwards  at  Eisenach,  where  he  was  obliged  to  go 
with  his  schoolfellows  and  sing  in  the  streets  to  earn 
a  morsel  of  bread, — a  custom  which  still  exists  in  many 
towns  in  Germany.  Often  the  poor,  modest  boy, 
instead  of  bread,  received  nothing  but  harsh  words. 
More  than  once,  overwhelmed  with  sorrow,  he  shed 
many  tears  in  secret,  and  he  could  not  look  to  the 
future  without  trembling. 

One  day  in  particular,  after  having  been  repulsed 
from  three  houses,  he  was  about  to  return  fasting  to 
his  lodgings,  when,  having  reached  the  Place  St.  George, 
he  stood  before  the  house  of  an  honest  burgher,  motion- 
less, and  lost  in  painful  reflections.  Must  he,  for 
want  of  bread,  give  up  his  studies  and  go  and  work 
with  his  father  in  the  mines  of  Mansfeldt?  Providence 
had  something  else  for  him  to  do.  The  wife  of  Con- 
rad Cotta  had  more  than  once  remarked  young  Martin 
at  church,  and  had  been  affected  by  the  sweetness  of 
his  voice  and  his  apparent  devotion.  She  heard  the 
harsh  words  with  which  the  poor  scholar  had  been 
repulsed.  She  saw  him  overwhelmed  with  sorrow 
before  her  door,  came  to  his  assistance,  beckoned  him 
to  enter,  and  supplied  his  wants. 


LUTHER   AT   THE    UNIVERSITY.  45 

Under  the  roof  of  this  good  Shunamite  Luther 
found  a  home.  And  here  he  enjoyed  a  tranquil  exist- 
ence, exemj)t  from  care  and  want ;  his  mind  became 
more  calm,  his  disposition  more  cheerful,  and  his  heart 
more  enlarged.  His  whole  nature  was  awakened  by 
the  sweet  beams  of  charity,  and  began  to  expand  into 
life,  joy,  and  happiness.  His  prayers  were  more  fer- 
vent; his  thirst  for  learning  became  more  ardent;  and, 
under  the  tuition  of  John  Trebonius  especially,  he 
made  rapid  progress  in  his  studies. 

On  attaining  his  eighteenth  year,  Luther  was  sent 
to  the  University  of  Erfurth,  in  1501.  His  father,  who 
was  now  in  better  circumstances,  required  him  to 
study  the  law.  Full  of  confidence  in  his  son's  talents, 
he  desired  to  see  him  cultivate  them  and  make  them 
known  in  the  world.  At  Erfurth,  Luther  outstripped 
his  schoolfellows.  Gifted  with  a  retentive  memory 
and  a  vivid  imagination,  all  that  he  had  heard  or  read 
remained  fixed  on  his  mind;  it  was  as  if  he  had  seen 
it  himself.  But  even  at  this  early  period  the  young 
man  of  eighteen  did  not  study  merely  with  a  view  of 
cultivating  his  understanding.  There  was  within  him 
a  spirit  of  serious  thoughtfulness.  He  felt  that  he  de- 
pended entirely  on  God,  and  fervently  invoked  the 
divine  blessing  on  his  labours.  Every  morning  he 
began  the  day  with  prayer;  then  he  went  to  church; 
and  afterwards  commenced  his  studies,  which  he  pro- 
secuted all  day  without  intermission.  One  would 
almost  say  of  him  that  he  lacked  nothing. 

When  Luther  had  been  two  years  at  Erfurth,  he  saw 
a  Bible  for  the  first  time.  It  was  in  the  university 
library.  On  opening  it  he  was  filled  with  astonishment 
to  find  in  it  more  than  those  fragments  of  the  Gospels 
and  Epistles  which  the  church  had  selected  to  be  read 


46  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

to  the  people  in  their  places  of  worship.  Till  then  he 
had  thought  that  these  were  the  whole  word  of  God. 
With  eagerness,  and  indescribable  feelings,  he  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  this  Latin  Bible.  He  read  and  re- 
read, and  then,  in  his  surprise  and  jo}^,  he  went  back 
to  read  again. 

In  this  same  year  Luther  was  laid  on  a  sick-bed. 
Death  seemed  at  hand,  and  serious  reflections  filled 
his  mind.  All  were  interested  in  the  young  man.  ''It 
was  a  pity,"  they  thought,  "  to  see  so  many  hopes  so 
early  extinguished."  Nor  were  they  extinguished. 
Luther  recovered,  and  seemed  to  himself  to  have  been 
called  to  a  new  vocation.  But  yet  there  was  no  set- 
tled purpose  in  his  mind.  lie  resumed  his  studies, 
and,  in  1505,  was  made  doctor  in  philosophy.  En- 
couraged by  the  honours  which  were  heaped  upon  him 
on  this  occasion,  he  prepared  to  apply  himself  entirely 
to  the  study  of  the  law,  agreeably  to  the  wishes  of  his 
father.     But  God  willed  otherwise. 

Whilst  Luther  was  engaged  in  various  studies  and 
beginning  to  teach  in  the  university,  his  conscience 
incessantly  reminded  him  that  religion  was  the  one 
thing  needful,  and  that  his  first  care  should  be  the 
salvation  of  his  soul. 

He  had  learned  God's  hatred  of  sin;  he  remem- 
bered the  penalties  that  his  word  denounces  against 
the  sinner;  and  he  asked  himself,  tremblingly,  if  he 
were  sure  that  he  possessed  the  favour  of  God.  His 
conscience  answered,  "JSTo." 

His  character  was  promj>t  and  decided  :  he  resolved 
to  do  all  that  depended  on  himself  to  insure  a  well- 
grounded  hope  of  immortality.  Two  events  occurred, 
one  after  another,  to  rouse  his  soul  and  confirm  his 
resolution.     Among  his  college  friends  there  was  one 


*  LUTHER   AWAKENED.  47 

named  Alexis,  with  whom  he  was  very  intimate.  One 
morning  a  report  was  spread  that  Alexis  had  been 
assassinated.  Luther  hurried  to  the  spot,  and  ascer- 
tained the  truth  of  the  report.  This  sudden  loss  of 
his  friend  affected  him,  and  the  question  which  he 
asked  himself,  "  What  would  become  of  me  if  I  were 
thus  suddenly  called  away  V  filled  his  mind  with  the 
liveliest  apprehension.        * 

During  the  summer  of  1505,  Luther  visited  the 
home  of  his  childhood  at  Mansfeldt,  and  on  his  return 
to  the  university  he  was  within  a  short  distance  of 
Erfurth,  when  he  was  overtaken  by  a  violent  storm. 
The  thunder  roared;  a  thunderbolt  sank  into  the 
ground  at  his  side.  Luther  threw  himself  on  his 
knees :  his  hour  is  perhaps  come :  death,  judgment, 
eternity,  are  before  him  in  all  their  terrors,  and  speak 
with  a  voice  which  he  can  no  longer  resist ;  encom- 
passed with  the  anguish  and  terror  of  death,  as  he 
himself  says,  he  makes  a  vow,  if  God  will  deliver  him 
from  this  danger,  to  forsake  the  world  and  devote 
himself  entirely  to  his  service.  Eisen  from  the  earth, 
having  still  before  his  eyes  that  death  which  must  one 
day  overtake  him,  he  examines  himself  seriously,  and 
inquires  what  he  must  do.  The  thoughts  that  for- 
merly troubled  him  return  with  redoubled  power.  He 
has  endeavoured,  it  is  true,  to  fulfil  all  his  duties; 
but  what  is  the  state  of  his  soul?  Can  he  with  a 
polluted  soul  appear  before  the  tribunal  of  so  terrible 
a  God  ?  He  must  become  holy.  He  now  thirsts  after 
holiness  as  he  had  thirsted  after  knowledge;  but 
where  shall  he  find  it?  How  is  it  to  be  attained? 
The  university  has  furnished  him  with  the  means  of 
satisfying  his  thirst  for  knowledge.  Who  will  assuage 
this  anguish,  this  vehement  desire  that  consumes  him 


48  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

now?  To  what  school  of  holiness  can  he  direct  his 
steps?  He  will  go  into  a  cloister;  the  monastic  life 
will  insure  his  salvation.  How  often  has  he  been  told 
of  its  power  to  change  the  heart,  to  cleanse  the  sinner, 
to  make  men  perfect !  He  will  enter  into  a  monastic 
order.  He  will  there  become  holy.  He  will  thus 
insure  his  eternal  salvation. 

Such  were  the  resolutions  and  hopes  which  filled 
the  breast  of  Luther  as  he  re-entei-ed  Erfurth.  His 
resolution  was  unalterable.  Still,  it  is  with  reluctance 
that  he  prepares  to  break  ties  that  are  so  dear  to  him. 
One  evening  he*invites  his  college  friends  to  a  cheer- 
ful and  simple  repast.  Music  once  more  enlivens 
their  social  meeting.  It  is  Luther's  farewell  to  the 
world.  At  the  moment  when  the  gayety  of  his  friends 
is  at  its  height,  the  young  man  can  no  longer  repress 
the  serious  thoughts  that  occupy  his  mind.  He 
speaks.  He  declares  his  intention  to  his  astonished 
friends.  They  endeavour  to  oppose  it;  but  in  vain. 
And  that  very  night  Luther,  perhaps  dreading  their 
importunity,  quits  his  lodgings.  Leaving  behind  his 
books  and  furniture,  and  taking  with  him  only  Virgil 
and  Plautus,  (he  had  not  yet  a  Bible,)  he  goes  alone, 
in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  to  the  convent  of  the 
Hermits  of  St.  Augustine.  He  asks  admittance.  The 
door  opens  and  closes.  And,  not  yet  two-and-tAventy 
years  old,  he  is  separated  from  his  parents,  his  com- 
panions, and  the  world. 

Luther  imagines  himself  now  with  God  and  safe. 
His  decision  and  renunciation  of  the  world  are 
commended  by  the  monks  and  reprobated  by  his 
father  and  friends.  As  for  himself,  he  is  quite  in 
earnest.  The  ring  he  received  when  made  doctor  of 
philosophy,  he  returns  to  the  university,  that  nothing 


LUTHER   IN    THE    CONVENT.  49 

may  remind  him  of  the  world  he  has  renounced. 
Within  his  new  home  he  performs  the  meanest  offices. 
And  then,  when  the  young  monk,  who  was  at  once 
porter,  sexton,  and  servant  of  the  cloister,  had  finished 
his  work,  "With  your  bag  through  the  town  !"  cried 
the  brothers ;  and,  loaded  with  his  bread-bag,  he  was 
obliged  to  go  through  the  streets  of  Erfurth,  begging 
from  house  to  house,  and  perhaps  at  the  doors  of  those 
very  persons  who  had  been  either  his  friends  or  his 
inferiors.  But  he  bore  it  all.  Inclined,  from  his 
natural  disposition,  to  devote  himself  heartily  to  what- 
ever he  imdertook,  it  was  with  his  whole  soul  that  he 
had  become  a  monk.  Besides,  could  he  wish  to  spare 
the  body  ?  to  regard  the  satisfying  of  the  flesh  ?  JS'ot 
thus,  he  thought,  could  he  acquire  the  humility,  the 
hohness  that  he  had  come  to  seek  within  the  walls  of 
a  cloister. 

The  prior  of  the  convent,  upon  the  intercession  of 
the  university,  freed  Luther,  ere  long,  from  the  mean 
offices  which  the  monks  had  imposed  upon  him ;  and 
the  young  monk  resumed  his  studies  with  fresh  zeal. 
The  works  of  the  fathers,  especially  St.  Augustine, 
attracted  his  attention.  ISTothing  struck  him  so  much 
as  the  opinions  of  this  father  upon  the  corruption  of 
man's  will,  and  upon  the  grace  of  God.  He  felt,  in 
his  own  experience,  the  reality  of  that  corruption, 
and  the  necessity  for  that  grace.  The  words  of 
Augustine  found  an  echo  in  his  heart.  He  loved 
above  all  to  draw  wisdom  from  the  pure  spring  of  the 
word  of  God.  He  found  in  the  convent  a  Bible, 
fastened  by  a  chain,  and  to  this  chained  Bible  he  had 
constant  recourse.  He  understood  but  little  of  the 
word ;  but  still  it  was  his  most  absorbing  study. 

Burning  with  a  desire  after  that  holiness  which  he 


50  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

had  sought  in  the  cloister,  Luther  gave  himself  uj^  to 
all  the  rigour  of  an  ascetic  life.  He  endeavoured  to 
crucify  the  flesh  by  fastings,  macerations,  and  watch- 
ings.  Shut  up  in  his  cell  as  in  a  prison,  he  was 
continually  struggling  against  the  evil  thoughts  and 
inclinations  of  his  heart.  A  little  bread,  a  single 
herring,  Avere  often  his  only  food;  and  for  days 
together  he  would  go  without  eating  or  drinking. 
Nothing  was  too  great  a  sacrifice,  at  this  period,  for 
the  sake  of  becoming  holy  to  gain  heaven.  Never 
did  a  cloister  witness  efforts  more  sincere  and  un- 
wearied to  purchase  eternal  happiness.  Had  they 
lasted  much  longer,  he  would  have  become  a  martj^r 
literally,  he  declared  afterwards,  through  watchings, 
prayer,  reading,  and  other  labours. 

At  this  point  we  may  pause  to  inquire  where 
Luther  is  spiritually,  and  what  he  has  attained.  Is 
he  a  partaker  of  the  divine  life?  Comparing  him 
with  Saul  of  Tarsus,  Martin  Luther  is  now  what  Saul 
was  when  he  sat  at  the  feet  of  Gamaliel  and  there 
outstripped  his  fellows  in  zeal  for  the  traditions  of 
his  fathers.  He  is  a  very  Pharisee.  Like  Saul,  he  is 
blameless  in  his  morals,  intensely  earnest  in  the 
performance  of  ritual  observances,  heartily  zealous 
to  serve  God  with  such  service  as  he  then  imagined 
to  be  pleasing  to  his  Maker.  But,  like  Saul,  too,  he 
was  only  "going  about  to  establish  his  own  righteous- 
ness." This  is  an  endeavour  which  is  often  as  j)lainly 
and  prominently  exemplified  among  professing  Chris- 
tians as  it  ever  was  by  the  most  zealous  adherents 
of  the  Mosaic  ritual.  "  There  are  other  materials," 
Bays  Dr.  Chalmers,  "besides  those  of  Judaism,  which 
men  may  employ  for  raising  a  fabric  of  self-righteous- 
ness.    Some   of  them,   even   among  Protestants,  as 


Luther's  conflicts.  51 

formal  in  their  character  as  the  sabbaths  and  sacra- 
ments of  Christianity;  others  of  them,  with  the  claim 
of  being  more  substantial  in  their  character,  as  the 
relative  duties  and  proprieties  of  life;  but  all  of  them 
proceeding  on  the  same  presumption,  that  man  can, 
by  his  own  powers,  work  out  a  meritorious  title  to 
acceptance  with  God,  and  that  he  can  so  equalize  his 
doings  with  the  demands  of  the  law  as  to  make  it 
incumbent  on  the  Lawgiver  to  confer  on  him  the 
rewards  and  the  favour  which  are  due  to  obe- 
dience. .  .  .  The  question  of  our  interest  with 
God  is  no  sooner  entertained  by  the  human  mind, 
than  it  appears  to  be  one  of  the  readiest  and  most 
natural  of  its  movements  to  do  something  for  the  object 
of  working  out  such  a  righteousness.  The  question 
of.  How  shall  I,  from  being  personally  a  condemned 
sinner,  become  personally  an  approved  and  acceptable 
servant  of  God  ?  no  sooner  enters  the  mind,  than  it  is 
followed  up  by  the  suggestion  of  such  a  personal 
change  in  habit  or  in  character  as  it  is  competent  for 
man,  by  his  own  turning  and  his  own  striving,  to 
accomplish." 

Never  did  human  soul  obey  this  natural  impulse  to 
essay  its  own  redemption,  both  from  guilt  and  from 
sin,  with  more  promptness  and  earnestness  than  did 
Luther's.  In  his  agony  of  mind,  he  had  recourse  to  all 
the  practices  of  monkish  holiness.  "When  temptations 
assailed  him,  "I  am  a  lost  man,"  he  said,  and  then 
resorted  to  a  thousand  methods  to  appease  the 
reproaches  of  his  heart.  "  I  confessed  every  day. 
But  all  that  was  of  no  use.  Then,  overwhelmed  with 
dejection,  I  distressed  myself  by  the  multitude  of  my 
thoughts.  See,  said  I  to  mj-self,  thou  art  envious, 
impatient,  passionate;  therefore,  wretch  that  thou  art; 


62  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

it  is  of  no  use  to  thee  to  have  entered  into  this  holy- 
order."  One  day,  overcome  with  sadness,  he  shut 
himself  in  his  cell,  and  for  several  days  and  nights 
suffered  no  one  to  approach  him.  At  last  the  door 
was  broken  open,  and  Luther  was  found  stretched  on 
the  floor  in  unconsciousness  and  without  any  sign  of 
life.  And  there,  through  mental  suffering  and  bodily 
self-mortification,  he  would  have  perished,  but  for 
those  who  rescued  him  by  a  gentle  violence. 

What,  we  repeat  the  question,  was  Luther's  religion 
at  this  time  ?  Was  it  superstition  or  fanaticism  ?  It 
was  certainly  not  the  divine  life,  for  it  was  the  very 
"  spirit  of  bondage  and  fear,"  and  not  "  of  power,  of 
love,  and  of  a  sound  mind."  How  he  became  a  par- 
taker of  the  divine  life  our  narrative  will  tell. 

The  Superior  of  the  Augustinian  order  was  a  man  of 
enlightened  mind.  The  study  of  the  Bible  and  of  St. 
Augustine,  the  knowledge  of  himself,  the  war  which 
he,  like  Luther,  had  to  wage  with  the  deceitfulness 
and  lusts  of  his  own  heart,  had  led  him  to  the  Saviour. 
And  he  found,  in  faith  in  Christ,  peace  to  his  soul. 
This  good  man,  John  Staupitz,  found  Luther  reduced 
by  study,  fasting,  and  watching,  so  that  you  might 
count  his  bones.  He  saw,  in  his  countenance,  the 
expression  of  a  soul  agitated  with  severe  conflicts, 
but  yet  strong  and  capable  of  endurance.  He 
approached  him  affectionately,  and  endeavoured  to 
overcome  the  timidity  of  the  novice.  The  heart  of 
Luther,  which  had  remained  closed  imder  harsh  treat- 
ment, at  last  opened  and  expanded  to  the  sweet  beams 
of  love.  He  felt  that  the  vicar-general  understood 
him,  and  did  not  refuse  to  open  to  him  the  cause  of 
his  sadness. 

"It  is  in  vain/'  said  the  dejected  Luther,  "that  I 


LUTHER  AND    STAUPITZ.  53 

make  promises  to  God;  sin  is  always  too  strong  for 
me."  ''Oh,  my  friend,"  answered  the  vicar-general, 
"I  have  vowed  to  the  holy  God  more  than  a  thousand 
times  that  I  would  live  a  holy  life,  and  never  have  I 
kept  my  vow.  I  now  make  no  more  vows;  for  I 
know  well  I  shall  not  keep  them.  If  God  will  not 
be  merciful  to  me  for  Christ's  sake,  and  grant  me  a 
happy  death  when  I  leave  this  world,  I  cannot,  with 
all  my  vows  and  good  works,  stand  before  him.  I 
must  perish."  The  young  monk  was  terrified  at 
the  thought  of  divine  justice.  He  confessed  all  his 
fears.  The  unspeakable  holiness  of  God,  his  sove- 
reign majesty,  filled  him  with  awe.  "But  why," 
said  Staupitz,  "do  you  distress  yourself  with  these 
speculations  and  high  thoughts?  Look  to  the  wounds 
of  Jesus  Christ,  to  the  blood  which  he  has  shed  for 
you;  it  is  there  you  will  see  the  mercy  of  God. 
Instead  of  torturing  yourself  for  your  faults,  cast 
yourself  into  the  arms  of  your  Eedeemer.  Trust  in 
him,  in  the  righteousness  of  his  life,  in  the  expiatory 
sacrifice  of  his  death.  Do  not  shrink  from  him;  God 
is  not  against  you;  it  is  you  who  are  estranged  and 
averse  from  God." 

But  Luther  could  not  find  in  himself  the  repentance 
which  he  thought  necessary  to  his  salvation;  he 
answered,  "How  can  I  dare  to  believe  in  the  favour 
of  God,  so  long  as  there  is  in  me  no  real  conversion? 
I  must  be  changed  before  he  can  receive  me."  His 
venerable  guide  endeavoured  to  show  him  that  there 
can  be  no  real  conversion  so  long  as  man  fears  God 
as  a  severe  Judge.  "What  will  you  say,  then,"  cried 
Luther,  "to  so  many  consciences,  to  whom  are  pre- 
scribed a  thousand  insupportable  penances  in  order  to 
gain  heaven?"     The  answer  to  this  question  seemed  to 


54  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

liini  .1  voicefrom  heaven.  "  There  is/'  said  Staiipitz,  "  no 
true  repentance  but  that  which  begins  in  the  love  of 
God  and  of  righteousness.  That  which  some  fancy  to  be 
the  end  of  repentance  is  only  its  beginning.  In  order 
to  be  filled  with  the  love  of  that  which  is  good,  you 
must  first  be  filled  with  the  love  of  God.  If  you  wish 
to  be  really  converted,  do  not  follow  these  mortifica- 
tions and  penances.  Love  Him  who  has  first  loved 
you."  These  words  penetrated  the  heart  of  Luther. 
Guided  by  this  new  light,  he  consulted  the  Scriptures. 
He  looked  to  all  the  passages  which  speak  of  repent- 
ance and  conversion, — words  which  were  no  longer 
dreaded  but  became  the  sweetest  refreshment.  Those 
passages  of  Scripture  which  once  alarmed  him  seemed 
now,  he  says,  to  run  to  him  from  all  sides,  to  smile,  to 
spring  up,  and  play  around  him. 

"Before,"  he  exclaims,  "though  I  carefully  dis- 
sembled with  God  as  to  the  state  of  my  heart,  and 
though  I  tried  to  express  a  love  for  him,  which  was 
only  a  constraint  and  a  mere  fiction,  there  was  no 
word  in  the  Scripture  more  bitter  to  me  than  repent- 
ance. But  now  there  is  not  one  more  sweet  and 
pleasant  to  me.  Oh,  how  blessed  are  all  God's 
precepts,  when  we  read  them,  not  in  books  alone,  but 
in  the  precious  wounds  of  the  Saviour!"  Luther  was 
at  this  time  probably  unacquainted  with  the  words 
of  the  Psalmist, — "I  will  run  the  way  of  thy  com- 
mandments, when  thou  shalt  enlarge  my  heart." 
But  he  was  beginning  to  realize  their  meaning.  The 
spirit  of  bondage  and  fear  was  giving  way  before  the 
blessed  truth  of  God's  free  grace  to  man  through  the 
death  and  mediation  of  his  beloved  Son,  and  in  its 
stead  there  was  springing  up  a  spirit  of  filial  confi- 
dence and  obedience. 


LUTHER'S   PROGRESS.  55 

This  change,  however,  was  not  instantaneous,  but 
gradual.  "Oh!  my  sin!  my  sin!  my  sin!"  he  cried, 
one  day,  in  the  presence  of  the  vicar-general,  and  in  a 
tone  of  the  bitterest  grief.  "Well,  would  you  be 
only  the  semblance  of  a  sinner,"  replied  the  latter, 
"and  have  only  the  semblance  of  a  Saviour?  Know 
that  Jesus  Christ  is  the  Saviour  of  those  even  who 
are  real  and  great  sinners,  and  deserving  of  utter  con- 
demnation." To  the  doubts  of  his  conscience  were 
added  those  of  his  reason.  He  wished  to  penetrate 
into  the  secret  counsels  of  God, — to  unveil  his  myste- 
ries, to  see  the  invisible,  and  comprehend  the  incom- 
prehensible. Staupitz  checked  him.  He  persuaded 
him  not  to  attempt  to  fathom  God,  but  to  confine  him- 
self to  what  he  has  revealed  of  his  character  in  Christ. 
"Look  at  the  wounds  of  Christ,"  said  he,  "and  you 
will  there  see  shining  clearly  the  purpose  of  God 
towards  man.  We  cannot  understand  God  out  of 
Christ.  'In  Christ  you  will  see  what  I  am  and  what 
I  require,'  hath  the  Lord  said;  'you  will  not  see  it 
elsewhere,  either  in  heaven  or  on  earth.' " 

The  conscience  of  the  young  Augustinian  did  not, 
however,  find  solid  repose  without  further  conflict. 
His  health  at  last  sunk  under  the  exertions  and  stretch 
of  his  mind.  He  was  attacked  with  a  malady  which 
brought  him  to  the  gates  of  the  grave.  And  all  his 
anguish  and  termors  returned  in  the  prospect  of  death. 
His  own  impurity  and  God's  holiness  again  disturbed 
his  mind.  One  day,  (it  was  now  the  second  year  of 
Luther's  abode  at  the  convent,)  when  he  was  over- 
whelmed with  despair,  an  old  monk  entered  his  cell 
and  sj)oke  kindly  to  him.  Luther  opened  his  heart  to 
him,  and  acquainted  him  with  the  fears  which  dis- 
quieted him.     The  old  man  uttered  in  simplicity  this 


66  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

article  of  tho  Ajiostles'  Creed: — "I  believe  in  the 
forgiveness  of  sins."  These  simple  words,  ingenuously 
recited  at  a  critical  moment,  shed  sweet  consolation 
in  the  mind  of  Luther,  ''/believe/'  repeated  he,  to 
himself,  on  his  bed  of  suffering,  "I  believe  the  re- 
mission of  sins."  "Ah,"  said  the  monk,  "you  must 
not  only  believe  that  David's  or  Peter's  sins  are  for- 
given :  the  devils  believe  that.  The  commandment  of 
God  is,  that  all  men  believe  that  sins  are  remitted  to 
them." 

"From  that  moment,"  says  D'Aubign^,  "the  light 
shone  into  the  heart  of  the  young  monk  of  Erfurth. 
The  word  of  grace  was  pronounced,  and  he  believed 
it.  lie  renounced  the  thought  of  meriting  salvation, 
and  trusted  himself  with  confidence  to  God's  grace 
in  Christ  Jesus.  He  did  not  perceive  the  consequence 
of  the  principle  he  admitted;  he  was  still  sincerely 
attached  to  the  church  of  Rome,  and  yet  he  was 
thenceforward  independent  of  it;  for  he  had  received 
salvation  from  God  himself,  and  Eomish  Catholicism 
was  virtually  extinct  to  him.  From  that  hour  Luther 
went  forward;  he  sought  in  the  writings  of  the 
apostles  and  prophets  for  all  that  might  strengthen 
the  hope  which  filled  his  heart.  Every  day  he  im- 
plored help  from  above,  and  every  day  new  light  was 
imparted  to  his  soul." 

The  history  of  the  Eeformation  lies  beyond  our 
present  theme.  But  it  is  important  to  remark  that 
Luther  did  not  assail  the  errors  of  Eomanism  in  detail 
until  after  he  was  grown  to  a  mature  stature  in  the 
knowledge  and  enjoyment  of  the  truth.  When  he 
did  assail  them,  it  was  because  he  had  already  felt 
their  incompatibility  Avith  the  truth.     "He  reasoned 


LUTHER   A    CHRISTIAN.  57 

always,"  to  use  the  words  of  Mr.  Isaac  Taylor,  "from 
the  centre  outward;  not  as  from  without  toward  the 
centre.  He  threw  off  the  errors  of  the  church, 
article  by  article,  from  the  interior  force  of  a  spiritual 
vitality;  or  as  a  husk  which  the  ripened  fruit  rejects. 
The  false  principles  and  corrupt  usages  in  which  he 
had  been  bred,  and  to  which  he  had  been  most  firmly 
attached,  slialed  away  one  by  one  from  his  mind,  from 
his  conduct,  from  his  creed,  as  exuvice  which  the 
energy  of  a  genuine  piety  could  no  longer  endure." 

In  the  history  of  Luther,  as  we  have  traced  it,  we 
have  found  a  twofold  conversion ;  first,  from  the  mere 
secularity  of  earthly  ambition  to  an  earnest  and  self- 
crucifying  Pharisaism,  and  then  from  this  Pharisaism 
to  a  pure  and  spiritual  Christianity.  The  turning- 
point  of  the  former  was  the  death  of  his  friend  Alexis, 
and  the  thunderbolt  which  burst  at  his  feet  as  he  was 
entering  Erfurth.  He  ceased  to  be  a  Pharisee  and 
became  a  Christian  through  the  instructions  of  John 
Staupitz  and  the  humbler  agency  of  the  old  monk  who 
reminded  him,  in  an  hour  of  mental  disquietude,  of 
the  doctrine  of  the  forgiveness  of  sins.  And,  now  a 
Christian,  the  divine  life  shines  forth,  not  in  the 
spirit  of  bondage  and  fear,  but  in  the  spirit  of  power 
and  of  love,  and  of  a  sound  mind.  As  in  the  case  of 
his  prototype,  Saul  of  Tarsus,  the  gospel  of  God's 
love  to  men  through  the  Mediator  Jesus  Christ  not 
only  freed  him  from  the  burden  of  guilt  which  op- 
pressed his  conscience,  but  inspired  his  heart  with  new 
and  stronger  motives  to  holiness.  He  was  no  longer 
a  slave  impelled  by  the  fear  of  punishment  to  serve  a 
hard  master,  but  a  son  constrained  by  love  and  grati- 
tude to  do  the  will  of  his  heavenly  Father. 


58  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

In  bold  contrast  with  the  name  of  Luther  stands 

Ignatius  Loy-  ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^  Ignatius  Loyolaj  and  yet 
died  nel^Kome!  "^  ^^^^  history,  too,  we  likcwise  learn 
July 31, 1556.  much  that  will  help  xis  in  studying 
the  true  character  of  the  divine  life.  "A  Spanish 
gentleman,  of  hold  bearing,  and  who  courts  every 
chivalrous  distinction,  and  breathes  at  once  a  nice 
honour  and  a  gallantry  less  nice,  is  grievously 
wounded  and  thrown  upon  his  bed,  where  he  endures 
weeks  of  anguish  and  months  of  languor.  Spoiled 
for  war  and  pleasure  by  the  hurt  he  has  received, 
and  fired  in  a  moment  by  a  new  ambition,  he  breaks 
from  his  home,  and  sets  forward  as  a  Christian  fakir, 
to  amaze  the  world  by  feats  of  wild  humility.  Ho 
undergoes  mental  paroxysms,  he  sees  visions,  and 
exists  thenceforward  in  a  condition  of  intense  emotion, 
resembling,  in  turns,  the  ecstasies  of  the  upper  and 
the  agonies  of  the  nether  world.  He  dedicates  him- 
self, body  and  soul,  to  the  service  of  the  blessed  virgin, 
— the  queen  of  angels;  he  sets  out  on  a  preaching 
pilgrimage  to  convert  the  Mohammedan  world,  and  he 
contemns  all  prudence  and  common  sense  in  apjilying 
himself  to  an  enterprise  so  immensely  disproportioned 
to  his  abilities.  In  the  course  of  a  year  or  two  he 
has  merited  canonization, — if  fervent  pietism  can  ever 
merit  it."* 

What  approaches  Loyola  made  to  the  divine  life, 
as  we  have  seen  it  in  Paul  and  in  Luther,  and  in  what 
respects  he  came  short  of  it,  will  soon  appear. 

Ignatius  Loyola  was  the  son  of  a  Sjianish  noble, 
and  at  an  early  age  was  sent  as  a  page  to  the  court  of 

*  Loyola  and  Jesuitism  in  its  Rudiments.  By  Isaac  Taylor.  —  We  are 
indebted  to  this  interesting  and  able  work  for  the  materials  of  our  sketch 
of  Ignatius  Loyola. 


IGNATIUS   LOYOLA.  59 

Ferdinand  find  Isabella.  Though  he  put  little  restraint 
upon  the  passions  of  youth,  he  was  distinguished 
among  his  companions  by  his  abstinence  from  profane 
language,  by  his  reverence  towards  the  ministers  of 
religion,  and  by  his  dislike  of  gambling.  Still,  he  pur- 
sued a  career  of  pleasure  and  worldly  ambition  till  he 
had  completed  his  twenty-ninth  year,  when  circum- 
stances occurred  which  turned  the  current  of  his 
thoughts  into  other  channels. 

France  and  Spain  were,  at  this  time,  contending  for 
the  possession  of  the  bordcr-pi'ovinces.  Pampeluna 
was  invested  by  a  French  force,  and  the  garrison  medi- 
tated surrender.  The  gallant  Loyola  retired  into  the 
citadel,  where  he  incited  those  who  held  it  to  maintain 
their  position  to  the  last.  A  breach  in  the  walls  was, 
however,  soon  effected;  and  while  Loyola  was  stop- 
ping the  way,  along  with  a  few  brave  companions,  he 
was  struck  by  a  ball  on  the  right  leg  and  by  a  splinter 
from  the  wall  on  the  left,  and  fell  in  the  breach.  The 
French,  with  considerate  kindness,  sent  their  heroic 
prisoner,  with  all  care,  to  be  nursed  in  his  paternal 
castle  not  far  distant. 

Loyola  thus  found  himself  at  home,  with  every  aid 
at  hand  which  love  and  skill  could  furnish.  But  the 
cure  of  his  wounds  was  tardy.  Violence,  frightful  to 
think  of,  but  which  the  patient  endured  with  the  calm 
fortitude  of  a  soul  strong  in  will,  was  oftener  than  once 
applied  to  the  fractured  limb.  He  sustained  too  much 
injury  to  allow  him  to  indulge  the  hope  of  ever  again 
shining,  as  heretofore,  in  chivalrous  array,  or  in  the 
shows  and  revelries  of  a  court.  His  return  to  the  world 
being  thus  cut  off,  his  after-formed  resolution  to  turn 
his  eye  forever  from  its  glare  was,  no  doubt,  rendered 
so  much  the  less  difficult  to  adopt  and  to  adhere  to. 


60  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

To  beguile  the  tedious  hours  of  languishing,  Ignatius 
called  for  some  of  those  tales  of  chivalry  which  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  peruse.  But  none  were  at  hand, 
or  he  soon  exhausted  the  entertainment  of  such  as  the 
castle  could  furnish.  Two  books  of  devotion  now  fell 
in  his  way, — a  Life  of  Christ,  probably  some  meagre 
and  decorated  compilation  from  the  evangelists,  and 
some  ascetic  memoirs  or  legends  of  the  desert. 

''These  books,"  to  use  the  words  of  Mr.  Isaac 
Taylor,  "  looked  into  at  first  with  listless  vexation, 
soon  set  on  fire  the  very  soul  of  Ignatius.  As  every 
fresh  page  was  turned,  sj)arks  fell  thick,  and  thicker 
still,  upon  materials  so  combustible  as  were  those  of 
this  soldier's  nature.  That  greatness  which  the  soul 
draws  upon  itself  by  the  habitual  contemplation  of 
infinitude, — ^the  steady  purpose,  too,  and  the  uncon- 
querable will,  and  the  unearthly  abstraction,  and  tho 
lofty  contempt  of  whatever  the  world  most  admires 
and  covets, — all  these  rudiments  of  sijiritual  heroism 
won  the  admiration  of  a  spirit  like  Loyola's,  sensitive 
and  generous,  and  now  broken  ofi"  by  a  sudden  violence 
from  the  incitements  of  worldly  passions,  although  in 
no  degree  sickened  of  them." 

From  the  reading  of  monastic  legends  Loyola  arose 
a  changed,  if  not  a  new,  man.  "Why  should  not  I," 
he  exclaimed,  "with  the  help  of  God,  emulate  the 
holy  Dominic  or  the  holy  Francis  ?"  "  These  breath- 
ings of  a  new  ambition  were,  however,  still  mingled 
with  sighs  and  groans,  produced  by  the  struggle  of 
earthly  passions  in  his  bosom.  The  bright  enticements 
which  hitherto  had  engaged  all  his  thoughts  and 
desires  continued  to  exert  their  unabated  influence 
over  him,  and  his  inmost  soul  was  racked  by  tho 
alternate  sway  of  those  opposite  forces.     It  seemed  as 


LOYOLA   A    MONK.  61 

if  his  very  spirit  must  have  been  riven  bj^  the  grasp, 
on  either  hand,  of  mighty  powers,  ^contrary  the  one 
to  the  other.'  " 

This  great  battle  between  the  spirit  of  the  world, 
and  the  spirit  of  the  monastery  was  decided  in  favour 
of  the  latter,  and  forthwith  he  addicted  himself  to  the 
most  self-denying  practices.  Soon  after  he  left  home, 
and  on  his  journey  to  the  Benedictine  monastery  at 
Montserrat,  be  chastised  his  flesh  nightly  with  the 
lash.  At  this  fomous  monastery,  in  order  to  obtain 
more  effective  aids  in  the  preservation  of  an  inviolate 
purity,  he  placed  himself  in  a  formal  and  solemn  man- 
ner under  the  immediate  guardianship  of  the  Virgin 
Mary.  His  next  business  was  to  make  confession  of 
the  sins  of  his  past  life,  a  recital  of  which  from  his 
written  memoranda  occupied  the  hours  of  three  entire 
days.  He  next  surrendered  the  remaining  contents 
of  his  purse  to  the  use  of  the  poor;  bestowed  upon  a 
ragged  mendicant,  under  favour  of  the  night,  the  costly 
garb  he  had  lately  worn;  and  with  eager  haste  took 
to  himself  the  pilgrim  gear  which  he  had  just  pro- 
vided,— a  long  hempen  cloak  of  the  most  rugged 
texture,  a  tunic,  a  rope  for  a  girdle,  shoes  of  matted 
Spanish  broom,  a  pilgrim's  staff  turned  at  the  end,  and 
a  drinking-bowl.  His  right  foot,  being  still  in  a 
swollen  state,  he  indulged  with  a  shoe;  the  left  was 
bare,  and  his  head  also.  ''Moreover,  as  it  was  the 
usage  with  those  who  were  about  to  enter  any  order 
of  knighthood  to  pass  one  entire  night,  armed,  in  a 
church,  he  resolved,  in  his  own  case,  to  adopt  this 
practice  on  the  occasion  of  his  formally  dedicating 
himself  to  the  Christian  warfare.  Thus  minded,  and 
having  suspended  his  sword  and  dagger  in  the  church, 
he  spent  the  whole  night  in  front  of  the  altar  of  the 


62  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

Virgin, — now  standing, — now  on  his  knees,  with  all 
humility,  imploring  pardon  for  his  past  offences;  de- 
voting himself  to  the  divine  service,  and  not  ceasing 
especially,  with  earnest  supplication,  to  propitiate  the 
'  blessed  mother  of  God.'  " 

In  all  this  Loyola  was  thoroughly  in  earnest.  We 
see  him,  the  Spanish  gentleman  in  sumptuous  attire 
no  more,  but  painfully  limping  along  the  roads,  one 
foot  naked,  the  other  swollen  and  clouted,  his  head  bare, 
his  hair  matted  and  foul,  his  beard  rough,  his  nails 
grown  like  eagles'  claws,  his  visage  sunken  and  squalid. 
At  Manresa,  a  small  town  about  nine  miles  from 
Montserrat,  he  spent  some  time,  and  each  day  begged 
a  morsel  of  bread  from  door  to  door.  Three  times 
every  day  he  smai-tly  chastised  his  bare  shoulders  with 
the  lash;  thrice  every  day  he  attended  prayers  at 
church,  besides  seven  hours  of  private  devotion;  and 
every  week  confessed  and  received  the  sacrament.  At 
the  same  time  he  gave  all  diligence  to  the  care  of  his 
spirit,  so  that  the  habiliments  of  poverty  and  self-denial 
might  truly  symbolize  the  condition  of  the  inner  man. 

The  reader  will  at  once  be  reminded  of  Luther  in 
the  convent  of  Erfurth.  How  like  the  picture  !  and 
how  similar  the  result  of  these  endeavours  to  obtain 
peace  and  purity!  Loyola's  toils  were  as  vain  as  had 
been  those  of  Luther  a  few  years  before.  "Li  his 
perplexity  he  began  to  doubt  if  the  elaborate  three- 
days'  confession  of  the  sins  of  his  life,  which  he  had 
lately  effected,  had  indeed  been  complete.  The  black 
catalogue  of  crime  was  perhaps  wanting  in  some 
one  particular,  on  behalf  of  which  the  wrath  of  Heaven 
continued  to  follow  him.  Day  and  night  ho  wept; 
he  went  over,  again  and  again,  the  ground  of  his  late 
confession;  and,  as  one  who  has  dropped  an  invalu- 


LOYOLA   IN   DESPAIR.  63 

able  jewel  on  his  vi-ay  turns  back  and  with  trembling 
diligence  scrutinizes  every  inch  of  the  ground  he  has 
trodden  and  renews  the  desperate  search  day  by  day, 
so  did  Ignatius  retrace  the  path  of  his  past  life,  even 
lip  to  the  commencement  of  his  moral  consciousness, 
anxiously  searching  among  the  almost  effaced  impres- 
sions of  memory  for  the  lost  crime.  To  think  too 
much  of  his  sins  was  not  Loyola's  mistake;  but  it  was 
his  misfortune  to  know  so  httle  as  he  knew  of  the 
only  mode  of  release  from  the  anguish  of  an  awakened 
conscience." 

In  the  midst  of  his  wretchedness  he  was  seized 
with  despair,  and  meditated  self-destruction.  With- 
held from  this  j)urpose,  he  resolved,  with  the  hope  of 
vanquishing  or  appeasing  the  divine  justice,  to  abstain 
absolutely  from  all  food  until  he  should  win  back  the 
peace  and  joy  which  he  had  lost.  Would  that,  in  this 
crisis  of  his  soul's  agony,  he  had  met  with  a  Staupitz 
to  direct  him  to  the  Saviour;  or  with  that  book  which 
taught  Luther  that  the  blood  of  Jesus  Christ  cleanseth 
from  all  sin  !  But  it  was  not  so.  Intermitting  no 
services  and  no  penances,  he  fasted  a  day — and  two 
days — and  three — and  four, — nay,  an  entire  week;  and 
he  would  have  persisted  in  his  resolution  had  not  his 
confessor  commanded  him  to  abandon  so  presumptu- 
ous an  endeavour  as  that  of  contending  with  the 
Almighty.  For  a  time  he  regained  some  tranquillity, 
but  soon  relapsed  into  the  same  condition  of  inward 
distress,  and  was  tempted  at  once  to  renounce  his 
ascetic  purposes  and  to  return  to  the  world  and  to  its 
enjoyments.  His  deliverance  from  this  state  of  mind 
is  ascribed  to  a  resolute  act  of  will.  He  suddenly 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  "  the  mystery  of  con- 
fession," attended  to  in  the  manner  and  for  the  pur- 


64  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

poses  for  which  he  used  it,  was  not  good,  but  evil. 
At  once,  therefore,  and  without  any  farther  hesitation, 
he  resolved  to  consign  the  entire  delinquencies  of  his 
past  life  to  perpetual  oblivion.  And  thus,  by  a  con- 
vulsive effort,  he  disengaged  himself  from  the  load  of 
his  past  sins. 

Though  from  the  time  when,  by  this  strong  act  of 
will,  he  emancipated  himself  from  his  despair,  he 
could  be  a  mere  ascetic  no  longer,  he  still  maintained 
ascetic  practices,  and  attached  to  them  a  virtue  and 
ef&cacy  which  belong  only  to  the  atonement  of  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.  When  he  approached  the  throne 
of  offended  justice,  "he  undertook  there  the  desperate 
task  of  expiating  the  guilt  of  past  years  by  bodily  tor- 
ments, such  as  the  most  renowned  saints  had  them- 
selves practised  and  had  ajiplauded."  Occasionally  ho 
seemed  to  rise  above  the  absurdity  of  such  practices ; 
but  he  persevered  in  them,  sometimes  perhaps  from 
motives  of  policy,  but  mainly  from  an  idea  of  their 
virtue. 

Whatever  opinion  we  form  of  the  order  of  Jesuits, 
no  one  will  deny  that  its  founder  was  in  earnest. 
His  soul  had  a  capacity  for  government  which  it  is 
difficult  to  understand  or  to  fathom.  And  all  his 
religious  undertakings  were  prosecuted  with  a  fer- 
vour the  most  intense  and  consuming.  If  zeal  has 
virtue  of  its  own,  irrespective  of  the  object  it  aims  to 
accomplish  and  of  the  means  which  it  uses,  the  divine 
life  has  seldom  appeared  in  more  vigorous  action  than 
in  the  person  of  Ignatius  Loyola.  But  if  we  consent 
to  be  taught  by  the  Apostle  Paul,  we  must  believe 
that  there  was  only  a  "show  of  wisdom"  in  that 
"  voluntaiy  humility"  which  made  him  a  beggar  for 
his  daily  bread  when  plenty  was  within  his  reach  in 


PAUL,  LUTHER,  AND  LOYOLA.  65 

other  and  more  honourable  ways;  and  only  "  a  show  of 
wisdom,"  likewise,  in  that  ''neglecting  of  the  body," 
and  in  those  self-inflicted  penances  which  emaciated  his 
frame  and  covered  it  with  disease.  If  we  accept  Paul 
as  a  model,  we  shall  not  forget  that  he  worked  with 
his  own  hands  to  provide  for  his  necessities,  but  never 
begged  to  exhibit  his  humilitj-;  and  that,  while  the  love 
of  Christ  constrained  him  to  endure  the  stripes  which 
the  enemies  of  Christ  inflicted  on  him,  he  never 
lifted  his  own  hand  to  do  himself  harm.  Such  practices 
Paul  traced  distinctly  to  a  heathen  soiirce;  and  hea- 
then they  must  ever  be,  whether  they  are  followed  by 
a  Hindoo  fakir,  or  a  Mohammedan  dervish,  or  a  so- 
called  Christian  devotee.  They  are  no  signs  of  the 
divine  life ;  this  best  and  heavenliest  principle  develops 
itself  in  far  other  fruits  and  ways. 


We  are  now  in  a  position  to  compare  Paul,  Luther, 
and  Loyola.  All  of  them  constitutionally  ardent  and 
active,  they  were  all,  likewise,  religiously  sincere,  ear- 
nest, and  self-denying.  But  up  to  a  certain  period 
these  attributes  were  Pharisaic,  not  Christian.  And 
more  thorough  disciples  than  these  men  Pharisaism 
cannot  boast.  Paul  is  introduced  to  us  at  the  very 
beginning  of  his  history  as  a  Pharisee.  Luther  and 
Loyola  begin  as  men  of  mere  worldly  pursuit  and 
ambition;  the  former  a  student,  and  the  latter  a 
soldier.  But  both  pass  from  pure  worldliness  to 
an  earnest  religiousness :  the  one  frightened  by  the 
death  of  his  friend  Alexis,  and  the  thunder-storm,  to 
flee  into  the  Augustinian  convent  to  save  his  soul;  the 
other  incapacitated  to  pursue  a  soldier's  life,  and  enjoy 
the  soldier's  pleasures,  by  the  wounds  of  which  ho 


DO  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

slowly  recovered  in  the  home  of  the  lords  of  Pam- 
peluna.  Up  to  this  point  the  three  stand  on  the 
same  religious  platform.  And,  had  they  all  found 
rest  there,  their  future  life  might  have  varied  in  form, 
hut  would  have  been  identical  in  spirit  and  princi- 
ple ;  they  would  have  been  earnest-minded  Pharisees, 
and  nothing  more.  Paul,  however,  became  a  Chris- 
tian, not  by  the  mere  intellectual  conviction  that 
Jesus  is  the  Christ,  far  less  by  the  mere  practice  of 
Christian  rites,  but  by  the  grace  which  taught  him 
to  find  peace  with  God,  and  a  fountain  of  inward 
purity  and  strength  in  the  mediation  of  Him  who 
died,  the  just  for  the  unjust.  The  Pharisee  Martin 
Luther  became  a  Christian  when  he  was  withdrawn 
from  confidence  in  his  own  inward  conflicts  and  out- 
ward mortifications,  and  beheld  and  confided  in  the 
Lamb  of  God  that  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the  world. 
In  the  Christian  Paul  and  Luther  the  divine  life 
m.anifest8  itself  not  in  mere  earnestness  and  zeal,  but 
in  the  spirit  of  trustful,  rejoicing,  filial  love  to  their 
God  and  Father.  But  what  shall  we  say  of  Ignatius 
Loyola  ?  In  the  hour  of  his  distress  there  was  no 
Staupitz  at  hand  to  say  to  him,  "  Look  to  the  wounds 
of  Jesus  Christ,  to  the  blood  which  he  has  shed  for 
you;  it  is  there  you  will  see  the  mercy  of  God.  In- 
stead of  torturing  yourself  for  your  faults,  cast  your- 
self into  the  arms  of  your  Eedeemer.  Trust  in  himj 
in  the  righteousness  of  his  life,  in  the  expiatory  sacri- 
fice of  his  death."  There  was  no  Bible  at  hand  to 
tell  him,  ''Believe  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  thou 
shalt  be  saved."  In  Christ  Jesus,  neither  circumcision 
availeth  any  thing,  nor  uncircumcision ;  but  faith  which 
worketh  by  love.  And  when  the  Holy  Scriptures  fell 
into  his  hands,  we  do  not  find  that  he  recognised  in 


THE    FILIAL    SPIRIT.  67 

them  those  first  truths  which  imparted  peace  and  life 
to  Paul  and  Luther,  delivered  them  from  the  spirit  of 
bondage  and  fear,  and  created  -within  them  a  spirit, 
not  of  power  merely,  but  of  love  and  of  a  sound  mind 
likewise.  So  far  as  the  conversion  of  Loyola  can  be 
traced,  it  left  him  at  a  distance  from  the  home  of 
evangelical  peace,  and  ignorant  of  the  true  principles 
of  evangelical  obedience. 

The  effect  of  the  doctrine  of  Christ's  atonement,  as 
our  peace  with  God,  is  to  produce  a  spirit  of  obedience 
to  God  at  once  earnest  and  filial.  "There  is  nothing 
that  so  chains  the  inactivity  of  a  human  being  as  hope- 
lessness," says  Dr.  Chalmers.  "There  is  nothing  that 
80  paralyzes  him  as  the  undefined  but  haunting  inse- 
curity and  terror  whicli  he  cannot  shake  away 

The  truth  that  Christ  died  for  our  sins,  so  far  from  a 
soporific,  is  a  stimulus  to  our  obedience;  and  it  is 
when  this  truth  enters  with  power  into  the  heart,  that 
the  believer  can  take  up  the  language  of  the  Psalmist 
and  say,  'Thou  hast  enlarged  my  heart,  and  I  will 
run  the  way  of  thy  commandments.'"  The  spirit  in 
which  they  obey  who  have  obtained  pardon  and  peace 
through  the  blood  of  the  cross,  and  in  which  they 
obey  who  are  looking  for  pardon  and  peace  through 
the  virtue  of  their  obedience,  is  essentially  difi'erent, 
even  when  they  perform  the  same  acts.  The  one  is  the 
spirit  of  the  child,  the  other  of  the  slave.  "As  sons, 
we  do  them  from  the  feeling  of  love;  as  servants,  we 
do  them  by  the  force  of  law.  It  is  the  spontaneous 
taste  of  the  one;  it  is  the  servile  task  of  the  other. 
The  meat  and  drink  of  the  servant  lie  in  the  hire  which 
is  given  for  the  doing  of  his  master's  will  The  meat 
and  drink  of  the  son  lie  in  the  very  doing  of  that 
will.     He  docs   not  feel   it    to  be  a  service,  but  the 


68  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

very  solace   and   satisfaction   of  his   own  renovated 
spirit." 

Of  the  principles  which  have  been  elicited  from  the 
expez'ience  of  Paul  and  Luther,  and,  by  contrast,  from 
that  of  Ignatius  Loyola,  we  shall  furnish  another  illus- 
tration in  the  history  of  the  English  bishop  Latimer. 


The  first  character  in  which  we  know  Hugh  Latimer 
is  that  of  a  genial,  merry  lad.     He  had 

Latimer;   born  °  ^  •' 

in  Leicestershire    followcd    the  pursuits   of   a    veoman's 

in  1491 ;  suffered  -^  .  .  "; 

martyrdom  at  hic  without  stain  01  vice  Or  dishonour. 
At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  sent  to 
the  University  of  Cambridge,  and  took  as  much  inte- 
rest in  the  amusements  as  in  the  studies  of  the  place. 
He  was  fond  of  pleasure  and  of  cheerful  conversation, 
and  mingled  frequently  in  the  festivities  of  the  youth- 
ful crowd  around  him.  At  what  age  the  transition 
took  place  from  light-heartedness  to  asceticism,  we 
are  not  aware;  but  he  was  still  young,  and  the  cir- 
cumstances have  been  recorded.  When  Latimer  and 
a  company  of  his  fellow-students  were  dining  together, 
one  of  the  party  exclaimed,  in  the  Latin  of  the  Vulgate 
translation  of  Eccl.  iii.  12,  "There  is  nothing  better 
than  to  be  merry  and  to  do  well."  "A  vengeance  on 
that  do  well!"  replied  a  monk  of  impudent  mien; 
"I  wish  it  were  beyond  the  sea;  it  mars  all  the  rest." 
Young  Latimer  was  startled.  "I  understand  it  now," 
he  said;  "that  will  be  a  heavy  do  well  to  these  monks 
when  they  have  to  render  God  an  account  of  their 
lives."  Forsaking  pleasure,  the  yeoman's  son  threw 
himself,  heart  and  soul,  into  the  practices  of  supersti- 
tion, and  became  distinguished  for  his  asceticism  and 
enthusiasm.    He  learned  to  attach  the  greatest  import-  ■ 


LATIMER   A    FANATIC.  69 

ance  to  the  merest  trifles.  As  the  missal  directs  that 
water  should  be  mingled  with  the  sacramental  M'ine, 
often  while  sajnng  mass  he  would  be  troubled  in  his 
conscience  for  fear  he  had  not  put  sufficient  water. 
And  this  fear  never  left  him  a  moment's  tranquillity 
during  the  service.  He  became  notorious  for  his 
ardent  fanaticism,  and  his  zeal  was  rewarded  by  the 
appointment  of  cross-bearer  to  the  university.  And 
in  this  capacity  he  was  conspicuous  for  seven  years, 
amidst  the  chanting  priests  and  splendid  shows  of 
every  religious  procession.  A  more  religious  man 
than  he  was,  in  his  own  way,  there  could  not  be; — not 
Saul  of  Tarsus,  not  Luther  in  the  Augustinian  monas- 
tery, not  Ignatius  Loyola.  Was  he  now  a  true  con- 
vert to  Christ?     Was  his  religion  the  divine  life? 

At  this  time  the  University  of  Cambridge  was 
greatly  agitated  by  the  publication  of  the  Greek  New 
Testament,  with  a  Latin  translation  by  Erasmus.  And 
there  was  no  one  to  whom  the  hopes  of  the  enemies  of 
this  book  looked  so  confidently  as  to  the  cross-bearer 
of  the  university.  This  young  priest  combined  a 
biting  humour  with  an  impetuous  disposition  and 
indefatigable  zeal.  He  followed  the  friends  of  the 
word  of  God  into  the  colleges  and  houses  where  they 
used  to  meet,  debated  with  them,  and  pressed  them 
to  abandon  their  faith.  On  occasion  of  receiving  the 
degree  of  Bachelor  of  Divinity,  he  had  to  deliver  a 
Latin  discourse  in  the  presence  of  the  university,  and 
chose  for  his  subject  ''Philip  Melancthon  and  his 
doctrines."  Latimer's  discourse  produced  a  great 
impression.  "At  last,"  said  his  hearers,  ''Cambridge 
will  furnish  a  champion  for  the  chui'ch  that  will  eon- 
front  the  Wittenberg  doctors  and  save  the  vessel  of 
our  Lord." 


70  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

Among  the  cross-bearer's  hearers  on  this  occasion 
was  Thomas  Bilney,  ahnost  hidden  through  his  small 
stature.  Bilney  easily  detected  Latimer's  sophisms, 
but  at  the  same  time  loved  his  j)erson,  and  conceived 
the  design  of  winning  him  to  what  he  believed  to  be 
the  truth.  He  reflected,  prayed,  and  at  last  planned 
a  strange  plot.*  He  went  to  the  college  where  Latimer 
resided.  "For  the  love  of  God,"  he  said,  ''be  pleased 
to  hear  my  confession."  The  confessor  expected  to 
hear  a  recantation  of  Bilney's  new  doctrines.  My 
discourse  against  Melancthon  has  converted  him,  he 
thought.  The  pale  face  and  wasted  frame  and  hvim- 
ble  look  of  his  visitor  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  would 
still  be  one  of  the  ascetics  of  Eome.  And  Latimer  at 
once  yielded  to  his  request.  Bilney,  kneeling  before 
his  confessor,  told  him,  with  touching  simplicity,  the 
anguish  he  had  once  felt  in  his  soul,  the  efforts  he  had 
made  to  remove  it,  their  unprofitableness,  and  the 
peace  he  had  felt  when  he  believed  that  Jesus  Christ 
is  the  Lamb  of  God  that  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the 
world.  He  described  to  Latimer  the  Spirit  of  adop- 
tion he  had  received,  and  the  happiness  he  experienced 
in  being  able  to  call  God  his  Father.  Latimer  listened 
without  mistrust.  His  heart  was  opened,  and  the 
voice  of  the  pious  Bilney  penetrated  it  without  ob- 
stacle. From  time  to  time  the  confessor  would  have 
chased  away  the  new  thoughts  which  came  crowding 
into  his  bosom;  but  the  penitent  continued.  His 
language,  at  once  so  simjole  and  so  lively,  entered  like 
a  two-edged  sword.  At  length  the  penitent  rose  up, 
but  Latimer  remained  seated,  absorbed  in  thought. 
Like  Saul  on  the  way  to  Damascus,  he  was  conquered, 
and  his  conversion,  like  the  apostle's,  was  instanta- 

*  D'Aubigue's  "  Keformation  in  England." 


Latimer's  conversion.  71 

neous.  He  saw  Jesus  as  the  only  Saviour  given  to 
man  :  he  contemplated  and  adored  him.  His  zeal  for 
the  superstitions  of  his  fathers  he  now  regarded  as 
a  war  against  God,  and  he  wept  bitterly.  Bilney  eon- 
soled  him  : — "Brother,  though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet, 
they  shall  be  white  as  snow."  Latimer  received  the 
truth,  and  was  henceforward  a  changed  man.  His 
energy  was  tempered  by  a  divine  unction,  and  he 
ceased  to  be  superstitious.  His  conversion,  as  of  old 
the  miracles  of  the  apostles,  struck  men's  minds  with 
astonishment.  To  the  hour  of  his  martyrdom  he  pro- 
claimed Jesus  Christ  as  him  who,  having  tasted  death 
for  every  man,  has  delivered  his  people  from  the 
j)enalty  of  sin.  With  this  blessed  doctrine  Bilney  and 
Latimer  explored  even  the  gloomy  cells  of  the  mad- 
house to  bear  the  sweet  voice  of  the  gospel  to  the  in- 
furiate maniacs.  They  visited  the  miserable  lazar- 
house  without  the  town,  in  which  several  poor  lepers 
were  dwelling ;  they  carefully  tended  them,  wrapped 
them  in  clean  sheets,  and  wooed  them  to  be  converted 
to  Christ.  The  gates  of  the  jail  at  Cambridge  were 
opened  to  them,  and  they  announced  to  the  poor 
prisoners  that  word  which  giveth  liberty.  Before 
princes  and  people  they  testified  the  gospel  of  the 
grace  of  God.  And  many  years  after  they  sealed  their 
testimony  with  their  blood. 


These  instances  of  the  divine  life — experimental  facts 
by  which  its  reality  is  ascertained,  and  from  which  its 
nature  may  be  inferred — have,  it  will  be  observed, 
much  in  common.  But  it  may  be  supposed  that  they 
have  peculiarities  which  remove  them  to  a  certain 
extent  from  the  experience  of  men  in  ordinary  society, 


72  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

and  in  our  country  and  times.  It  will  be  seen,  how- 
ever, on  the  examination  of  the  instances  to  which  we 
now  proceed,  that  these  peculiarities  do  not  affect  the 
substance  of  Christian  truth,  or  its  practical  results 
in  the  heart  and  life  of  those  who  receive  it. 

The  first  example  which  we  select  of  a  more  com- 
mon class  of  conversions  than  that  of  monks  and 
ascetics  possesses  a  bold  and  definite  outline.  And 
we  place  it  first  because  the  change  which  its  subject 
underwent  was  so  obvious  and  visible,  that  the  blind- 
est eye  must  see  it. 
James  Gardiner  was  born  in  the  year  of  the  Eng- 
coionei  oardi-  lish  Ecvolutiou, — 1688.  Sucli  was  his 
ary'wthyiTss";  recMcss  daring  that  he  had  fought 
panVse^tembei  thrcc  ducls  bcforc  hc  attained  to  the 
2iBt.i745.  stature  of  a  man.     In  the  first  of  his 

country's  battles  in  which  he  was  engaged,  he  was 
left  among  the  wounded  on  the  field  of  action,  and  his 
conduct  in  this  melancholy  position  shows  how  god- 
less and  hardened  his  heart  was.  He  was  now  in  the 
nineteenth  year  of  his  age.  His  life  had  already  been 
steeped  in  licentiousness,  but  he  had  no  thoughts  of 
repentance ;  his  one  concern  w^as  how  to  secure  the 
gold  which  he  had  about  him.  Expecting  to  be  stripped 
by  the  enemy,  he  took  a  handful  of  clotted  gore,  placed 
his  gold  in  the  midst  of  it,  shut  his  hand,  and  kept  it 
in  that  position  till  the  blood  so  dried  and  hardened 
that  his  hand  would  not  easily  fall  open  if  any  sudden 
surprise  overtook  him.  The  next  morning  he  lay  fiiint 
and  exhausted,  through  loss  of  blood,  and  overheard 
one  Frenchman  say  to  another,  "Do  not  kill  that  poor 
child."  And  when  he  was  able  to  open  his  fevered 
lips,  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  tell  a  deliberate  fiilse- 
hood,  namely,  that  he  was  nephew  to  the  governor  of 


COLONEL   GARDINER.  73 

Hu}',  a  neutral  town  in  the  neighbourhood.  Ilis  suf- 
ferings the  following  night  were  such  that  he  begged 
those  who  were  carrying  him  to  Huy  to  kill  him  out- 
right; but  still  he  had  no  thoughts  of  God.  And 
when  his  recovery  was  perfected,  and  he  was  restored 
to  his  country,  it  was  only  to  plunge  into  all  manner 
of  excesses.  The  most  criminal  intrigues  formed  the 
staple  of  his  existence  from  this  period  till  the  thirtieth 
3'ear  of  his  age.  By  his  military  companions  he  was 
called  *'  the  happy  rake."  But  he  was  not  happy. 
On  one  occasion,  while  his  profligate  associates  were 
congratulating  him  on  his  criminal  successes,  a  dog 
happened  to  enter  the  room,  and  the  young  soldier 
(as  he  well  remembered  afterwards)  could  not  forbear 
groaning  inwardly,  "Oh  that  I  were  that  dog!" 
"His  continual  neglect  of  the  great  Author  of  his 
being,  of  whose  perfections  he  could  not  doubt,  and  to 
whom  he  knew  himself  to  be  under  daily  and  per- 
petual obligations,  gave  him,  in  some  moments  of  in- 
voluntary reflection,  inexpressible  remorse,  and  this, 
at  times,  w^rought  upon  him  to  such  a  degree  that  he 
resolved  he  would  attempt  to  pay  him  some  acknoM- 
ledgments."  Accordingly,  for  a  few  mornings  he  re- 
peated some  passages  of  Scripture,  and  bent  his  knees 
before  the  throne  of  God.  But  the  remonstrances  of 
reason  and  conscience  soon  yielded  to  the  power  of 
temptation;  and  hairbreadth  escapes  by  sea  and  land 
only  confirmed  his  alienation  from  God. 

In  the  thirty-first  year  of  his  age,  how^ever,  Gardiner 
became  the  subject  of  a  moral  change  as  thorough  and 
striking  as  any  which  human  history  can  present, 
while  the  singularity  of  the  circumstances  in  which  it 
occurred  has  seldom  been  equalled. 

Towards  the   middle  of  July,  1719,  he   spent   an 


74  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

evening  of  folly  with  some  of  his  gay  associates.  The 
company  broke  up  about  eleven,  and  at  twelve  he  had 
made  a  criminal  appointment.  The  intervening- 
hour  must  be  bridged  over  by  some  employment. 
A  pious  mother  had,  without  his  knowledge,  shp- 
ped  into  his  portmanteau  Watson's  "Christian 
Soldier,  or  Heaven  taken  by  Storm."  The  title  at- 
tracted him,  and  he  expected  some  amusement  from 
its  jnilitary  phraseology.  He  took  it  and  read,  but 
it  produced  no  seriousness  nor  reflection.  While 
the  book  was  yet  in  his  hand,  however,  impressions 
were  made  on  his  mind,  the  fruit  of  which  must  be 
regarded  as  the  best  index  to  whence  they  came. 
Whether  he  was  asleep  or  awake  at  the  time,  he  felt 
it  afterwards  difficult  to  determine.  But  if  asleep, 
so  vividly  was  what  he  saw  and  heard  impressed  on 
his  mind,  that  it  seemed  to  be  a  waking  realit}^ 
"He  thought  he  saw  an  unusual  blaze  of  light  fall  on 
the  book  while  he  was  reading,  which  he  at  first 
imagined  might  happen  by  some  accident  in  the  candle. 
But,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  he  apprehended,  to  his  extreme 
amazement,  that  there  was  before  him,  as  it  were  sus- 
pended in  the  air,  a  visible  representation  of  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  upon  the  cross,  surrounded  on  all  sides 
with  a  glory;  and  was  impressed,  as  if  a  voice,  or 
Bomething  equivalent  to  a  voice,  had  come  to  him  to 
this  effect,  'O  sinner!  did  I  suffer  this  for  thee?  and 
are  these  the  returns  ?' ''  Affected  as  were  Daniel 
and  John  by  the  supernatural  visions  they  saw, 
"there  remained  hardly  any  hfc"  in  Colonel  Gardiner, 
and  he  continued,  he  knew  not  how  long,  insensible ; 
but  when  he  opened  his  eyes  he  saw  nothing  more 
than  usual. 

It  were  easy  to  dismiss  this  tale  as  the  dream  of  an 


Gardiner's  dream.  75 

enthusiast,  but  such  a  proceeding  would  be  far  too 
summary  to  be  "worthy  of  inquirers  after  truth.  If 
Gardiner  had  returned  to  his  evil  courses,  we  should 
have  treated  his  vision  as  the  mere  offspring  of  an  ex- 
cited imagination  and  a  disturbed  conscience.  And, 
as  it  is,  it  need  not  be  doubted  that  imagination  and 
conscience  were  both  at  work;  but  then  they  were 
called  to  their  work,  and  guided,  in  the  part  which 
they  performed,  by  some  power  foreign  to  the  man's 
own  soul.  This  we  infer  from  the  results.  And  what 
that  power  was,  they  will  not  doubt  who  are  willing 
to  be  guided  by  the  Book  in  their  interpretation  of 
spiritual  changes.  "  It  cannot  in  the  course  of  nature 
be  imagined,"  says  his  biographer,  '*  how  such  a 
dream  should  arise  in  a  mind  full  of  the  most  impure 
ideas  and  atfections,  and,  as  he  himself  often  pleaded, 
more  alienated  from  the  thoughts  of  a  crucified  Saviour 
than  from  any  other  object  that  can  be  conceived; 
nor  can  we  surely  suppose  it  should,  without  a  mighty 
energy  of  the  divine  power,  be  effectual  to  produce 
not  only  some  transient  flow  of  passion,  but  so  entire 
and  so  permanent  a  change  in  character  and  con- 
duct." 

The  dreamer  arose  from  his  seat,  after  a  period  of 
unconsciousness,  and  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  chamber 
under  a  tumult  of  emotions,  till  he  was  ready  to 
drop  down  in  unutterable  astonishment  and  agony  of 
heart,  appearing  to  himself  the  vilest  monster  in  the 
creation  of  God,  who  had  all  his  lifetime  been  crucify- 
ing Christ  afresh  by  his  sins.  With  this  was  con- 
nected such  a  view  both  of  the  majesty  and  goodness 
of  God  as  caused  him  to  loathe  and  abhor  himself,  and 
to  repent  as  in  dust  and  ashes.  He  immediately  gave 
judgment  against  himself,  that  he  was  most  justly 


7G  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

worthy  of  eternal  damnation,  and  was  astonished  that 
he  had  not  been  immediately  struck  dead  in  the 
midst  of  his  wickedness."  For  several  months  after, 
it  was  a  settled  point  with  him  that  the  wisdom  and 
justice  of  God  almost  necessarily  required  that  such 
an  enormous  sinner  should  be  made  an  example  of 
everlasting  vengeance,  and  he  dared  hardly  ask  for 
pardon.  His  mental  sufferings  were  now  extreme, 
but  he  often  testified  afterwards  that  they  arose  not 
so  much  from  the  fear  of  hell  "as  from  a  sense  of  that 
horrible  ingratitude  he  had  shown  to  the  God  of  his 
life,  and  to  that  blessed  Redeemer  who  had  been  in  so 
affecting  a  manner  set  forth  as  crucified  before  him." 
Those  licentious  pleasures  which  had  before  been  his 
heaven  became  now  absolutely  his  aversion.  "And 
indeed,"  says  his  biographer,  "when  I  consider  how 
habitual  all  those  criminal  indulgences  were  grown  to 
him,  and  that  he  was  now  in  the  prime  of  life,  and 
all  this  while  in  high  health  too,  I  cannot  but  be 
astonished  to  reflect  upon  it,  that  he  should  be  so 
wonderfully  sanctified  in  body  as  well  as  in  soul  and 
spirit,  as  that,  for  all  the  future  years  of  his  life,  he, 
from  that  hour,  should  find  so  constant  a  disinclination 
to  and  abhorrence  of  those  criminal  sensualities  to 
which  he  fancied  he  was  before  so  invariably  impelled 
by  his  very  constitution,  that  he  was  used  strangely 
to  think  and  to  say  that  Omnipotence  itself  could  not 
reform  him  without  destroying  that  body  and  giving 
him  another." 

At  length  the  heavy  burden  fell  from  off  this  weary 
pilgrim,  as  from  others,  when  he  saw  the  cross.  His 
peace  came  by  means  of  that  memorable  Scripture, — • 
"Whom  God  hath  set  forth  to  be  a  propitiation  through 
faith  in  his  blood,  to  declare  his  righteousness  for  the 


GARDINER   A    NEW    MAN.  77 

remission  of  sins;  that  he  might  be  just,  and  the  justi- 
fier  of  him  which  believeth  in  Jesus."*  He  had  used 
to  imagine  that  the  justice  of  God  required  his  eternal 
death.  But  now  he  saw  that  the  divine  justice  miglit 
be  vindicated,  and  even  glorified,  in  saving  him  by  the 
blood  of  Jesus  Christ.  "Then  did  he  see  and  feel  the 
riches  of  redeeming  love  and  grace  in  such  a  manner 
as  not  only  engaged  him,  with  the  utmost  pleasure  and 
confidence,  to  venture  his  soul  upon  it,  but  even  swal- 
lowed up,  as  it  were,  his  whole  heart  in  the  returns  of 
love,  which  from  that  blessed  time  became  the  genuine 
and  delightful  principle  of  his  obedience,  and  animated 
him  with  an  enlarged  heai't  to  run  in  the  way  of  God's 
commandments." 

The  future  life  of  Colonel  Gardiner,  from  the  "hour 
of  his  conversion  till  he  fell  at  Preston-Pans  in  defence 
of  the  House  of  Hanover, — a  period  of  twenty-six 
years, — was  one  of  distinguished  excellence.  The 
*'new  man"  was  virtuous  and  pure  and  godly  as  the 
"old"  had  been  licentious  and  profane.  The  change 
is  a  spiritual  fact  of  deep  interest;  and  if  it  be  in  any 
sense  m^'sterious  when  viewed  in  the  light  of  Chris- 
tian truth,  it  w^ould  be  not  only  mysterious,  but  unac- 
countable, if  that  truth  be  denied. 


We  select  for  our  second  example  a  spiritual 
change,  which  presents  a  contrast  to  that  of  Colonel 
Gardiner  in  all  respects  but  in  that  essential  oneness 
which  will  be  found  to  unite  all  true  conversions. 

"When  Dr.  Chalmers  was  professor  of  moral  philo- 
sophy in  the  University  of  St.  Andrew,  the  fame  of 
his  eloquence  attracted  to  his  classes  young  men  of  a 


78  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

superior  order  from  all  parts  of  the  kingdom.  Of  one 
of  these,  who  died  young,  the  professor  wrote,  in  1827, 
"He  had  the  amplitude  of  genius,  hut  none  of  its  ir- 
regularities. He  was  neither  a  mere  geometer,  nor  a 
mere  linguist,  nor  a  mere  metaphysician;  he  was  all 
put  together;  alike  distinguished  b}'"  the  fulness  and 
the  harmony  of  his  powers.  .  .  .  He  far  outpeered  all 
his  fellows,  and,  in  a  class  of  uncommon  force  and 
brilliancy  of  talent,  shone  forth  as  a  star  of  the  first 
magnitude."  From  the  class  thus  described  have 
arisen  some  of  the  most  eminent  men  who  now  adorn 
both  the  puljiit  and  the  bar.  And  the  youth  who  out- 
peered  these  men,  and  elicited  this  encomium  from  so 
illustrious  a  teacher,  must  have  been  a  person  of  no 
common  order. 

This  was  John  Urquhart,  the  son  of  a  goldsmith 
johnTJrquhart;  in  the  ancicnt  city  of  Perth.  From 
jun°  7th  '^i¥os'  I'is  childhood  he  enjoyed  the  inesti- 
jitirf 'Toi  mable  privilege  of  enlightened  parental 
•'^^'-  care,  and  of  pastoral   instruction  of  a 

high  order.  He  was  constitutional]}'  aftectionate  and 
amiable.  Among  his  schoolfellows  he  was  a  jDat- 
tern  of  all  outward  goodness  at  least.  One  of  them 
— now  Dr.  Duff,  missionary  in  Calcutta — testifies 
that  his  superior  intellectual  attainments  commanded 
their  admiration,  and  his  simplicity  and  guileless 
innocence  their  love.  ''You  never  heard  him  utter 
a  harsh  or  unbecoming  expression;  you  never  saw 
him  break  forth  into  a  violent  j:»assion;  you  never 
had  to  reprove  him  for  associating  with  bad  com- 
panions, nor  for  engaging  in  improper  amusements. 
In  every  innocent  pastime  for  promoting  the  health, 
in  every  playful  expedient  for  whetting  the  mental 
powers,  none  more  active   than  he;    but  in  all  the 


JOHN    URQUHART.  79 

little  bra-wls  and  turmoils  that  usuallY  agitato  3-outh- 
ful  associations,  there  was  one  whom  you  might  safely 
reckon  upon  not  having  any  share.  The  love  of 
•what  was  good,  and  abhorrence  of  what  was  evil,  had 
been  so  habitually  inculcated  from  childhood,  that  the 
(herishing  of  these  feelings  might  seem  to  have  ac- 
(juired  the  strength  of  a  constitutional  tendency,  and 
the  abandonment  of  them  would  have  been  like  the 
breaking  up  of  an  established  habit." 

Can  such  a  youth  need  conversion?  See  him  at 
school,  and  he  stands  foremost  morally  as  well  as  in- 
tellectually; see  him  at  home,  and  he  is  the  idol  of 
parental  aifeetion;  see  him  in  the  playground,  and 
with  all  the  zest  with  which  he  enjoys  it  there  are  in- 
termingled none  of  its  evil  passions;  see  him  in  the 
sanctuary,  and  none,  so  far  as  eye  can  judge,  more 
devout  than  he;  see  him  in  the  morning,  and  you  will 
find  him  with  the  rising  sun,  pacing  the  beautiful 
banks  of  the  Tay,  "like  a  shadow  wholly  unbound  to 
the  surface,  sometimes  in  the  attitude  of  deepest  me- 
ditation, and  sometimes  perusing  the  strains  of  the 
Mantuan  bard;"  see  him  in  the  evening,  and  not  the 
haunt  of  "udckedness,  but  the  family  hearth  and  the 
quiet  study,  are  his  resort.  We  follow  him  to  the  Uni- 
versity of  St.  Andrew,  while  he  is  yet  a  boy,  having 
only  completed  his  fourteenth  year,  and  he  is  un- 
changed. Steady  and  persevering  in  all  his  habits,  he 
is  ardently  set  on  rising  to  eminence  in  some  honour- 
able department  of  life.  Possessed  of  a  generous  and 
self-denying  spirit,  he  nobly  sacrifices  every  thing 
which  it  is  possible  for  him  to  give  up,  that  the  ex- 
penses of  his  education  may  aftect  as  little  as  possible 
the  other  members  of  his  father's  family.  Exposed 
to  new  and  formidable  dangers,  his    conduct  is  uni- 


80  THE   DIVINE   LIFE, 

formly  correct;  his  attendance  on  divine  worship  is 
regular;  the  private  reading  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  is 
not  neglected;  and  morning  and  evening  are  sanctified 
by  prayer.  Can  such  a  youth  need  conversion?  "In 
a  case  like  his/'  his  biographer  justly  remarks,  "no 
very  marked  or  visible  transition  could  take  place." 
But  John  Urquhart  was  led  to  judge  that  he  needed  a 
change  as  deep  and  real  as  any  poor  prodigal  who  has 
wasted  his  substance  with  riotous  living.  And  during 
the  second  year  of  his  university  course  he  gave  the 
following  account  of  what  he  hoped  was  such  a 
change,  to  his  pastor  and  friend,  and  afterwards  his 
biographer,  the  Eev.  William  Orne : — 

"My  first  impressions  of  danger  as  a  sinner  were 
caused  by  a  sermon  you  preached  about  a  year  and  a 
half  ago.  At  the  time  I  was  very  much  affected;  it 
was  then,  I  think,  that  I  first  really  prayed.  I  retired 
to  my  apartment,  and  with  many  tears  confessed  my 
guilt  before  God.  These  impressions  were  followed 
by  some  remarkable  events  in  the  providence  of  God, 
which  struck  me  very  forcibly.  About  that  time  I  had 
a  proof  of  the  inability  of  earthly  wisdom  and  learn- 
ing to  confer  true  happiness,  by  the  melancholy  death 
of  my  grammar-school  teacher.  On  leaving  my  father's 
house  to  come  here,  shortly  after,  I  felt  myself  in  a 
peculiar  manner  dependent  on  Jehovah.  I  was  re- 
moved from  the  care  of  my  earthly  father,  and  from 
the  intercourse  of  my  earthly  friends;  and  I  felt  great 
pleasure  in  committing  myself  to  Him  who  is  the 
father  of  the  filth erless  and  a  friend  to  those  that 
have  none.  My  companion  used  to  join  me  morning 
and  evening  in  the  reading  of  the  Scriptures  and 
prayer.  In  these,  and  in  attending  on  the  more  public 
exercises  of  God's  worship,  I  had  some  enjoyment,  and 


UKUUHART's    CUNVKRSION.  81 

from  them,  I  think,  I  derived  some  advantage.  On 
my  return  home,  however,  last  summer,  1  began  to 
feel  less  pleasure  in  these  employments;  they  began 
to  be  a  weariness  to  me,  and  were  at  last  almost  totally 
neglected.  My  soul  reverted  to  its  original  bent,  and 
the  follies  of  this  world  wholly  engrossed  my  atten- 
tion. Had  I  been  left  in  that  state,  I  must  have 
inevitably  perished.  But  God  is  rich  in  mercy;  he 
delighteth  not  in  the  death  of  the  wicked.  In  his 
infinite  mercy  he  has  again  been  pleased  to  call  my 
attention  to  the  things  of  eternity.  For  some  months 
back  I  have  been  led  to  see  the  utter  worthlessness  of 
earthly  things;  to  see  that  happiness  is  not  to  be 
found  in  any  earthly  object;  that 

'•Learning,  pleasure,  wealth,  and  fame, 
All  cry,  'It  13  not  here.' " 

And  I  think  I  have  been  led  to  seek  it  where  alone 
it  is  to  be  found, — in  'Jesus  crucified  for  me.'  I  have 
felt  great  pleasure  in  communion  with  God;  and  I 
have  felt  some  love,  though  faint,  to  the  Saviour  and 
to  his  cause.  I  have  had  a  long  struggle  with  the 
world.  I  have  counted  the  cost,  and  I  have  at  last 
resolved  that  I  will  serve  the  Lord." 

In  pursuance  of  this  holy  purpose,  formed  not  in 
his  own  strength,  John  Urquhart  took  his  place  pub- 
licly among  the  followers  of  Christ  in  the  sixteenth 
year  of  his  age.  And  well  did  his  life  sustain  the 
character  which  he  thus  assumed.  "His  crowning 
excellence,"  said  Dr.  Chalmers,  "was  lijs  piety.  This 
religious  spirit  gave  a  certain  ethereal  hue  to  all  his 
college  exhibitions."  Young  Urquhart  looked  forward 
solemnly  to  "life"  as  the  "test"  of  the  genuineness 
of  the  professions  which  he  now  made.     "May  God 


82  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

perfect  his  strength  in  my  weakness,"  he  said,  "and 
may  he  enable  me  to  live  henceforth  not  to  myself,  but 
to  Him  "who  died  for  me,  and  who  rose  again;  to  offer 
my  body  a  living  sacrifice,  and  to  devote  all  the  facul- 
ties of  my  mind  to  his  service."  "Talents  which," 
to  use  the  words  of  Dr.  Chalmers,  "would  have  raised 
him  to  the  highest  summits  of  learning  and  philo- 
sophy" were  thus  unreservedly  consecrated  to  the 
honour  of  his  Divine  Lord  and  Saviour.  "Length  of 
days"  was  not  given  to  him  to  test  his  fidelity;  but 
he  lived  long  enough,  although  he  died  in  the  nine- 
teenth year  of  his  age,  to  have  it  said  of  hin^,  as  it  was 
of  Henry  Martyn,  "that  his  symmetry  in  the  Chris- 
tian stature  was  as  surprising  as  its  height/' 


Our  THIRD  EXAMPLE  differs  in  many  respects  both 
from  Colonel  Gardiner  and  from  John  Urquhart. 

Ebenezer  Birrell  was  trained  in  the  fear  of  God. 
Ebenezer  Bir-  During  his  boyhood  there  was  much 
kaidy?juiyinh"  ^^  ^^^  moral  deportment  to  awaken  the 
L^ndonfoe^em-  intcrcst  and  hopcs  of  his  kindred.  In 
bcr  30th,  1841.  ^i^Q  sixteenth  year  of  his  age  he  was 
the  subject  of  deep  religious  impressions.  Uniting 
with  his  brother  and  a  sister's  family  in  the  morning 
reading  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  when  some  observa- 
tions were  made  on  the  danger  of  stifling  serious 
impressions,  his  countenance  assumed  an  appearance 
altogether  unusual.  "It  became  pale  and  full  of 
dread,"  says  his  brother,  "and  we  quickly  finished 
the  engagement  by  earnest  prayer,  under  the  per- 
suasion that  that  was  the  most  suitable  course.  An 
unusual  tenderness  appeared  in  his  conduct,  during 
the  few  minutes  that  I  saw  him,  before  retiring  to 


EBENEZEE   BIRRELL.  83 

rest  at  night.  Not  long,  however,  after  having  done 
80, 1  heard  a  voice  in  his  chamber.  On  rising,  I  found 
him  kneehng  on  his  bed,  weeping  and  trembUng  with 
the  greatest  violence;  and,  on  asking  the  cause  of  his 
emotion,  he  answered  that  he  dreaded  the  conse- 
quences of  being  left  to  final  hardness  of  heart.  After 
acquiring  some  composure,  we  knelt  together,  and 
cried,  in  that  solemn  night-season,  for  the  mercy  and 
grace  of  God."  But  the  result  was  transient.  Years 
afterwards,  he  said  of  it,  ''At  this  time  I  remember  to 
have  experienced,  for  the  first  time,  the  impression 
that  religion  was  a  matter  with  which  I  had  to  do.  I 
became  alarmed  and  impressed ;  but,  after  continuing 
rather  serious  for  a  few  days,  I  again  sank  back  into 
my  former  indifi'erence."* 

Soon  after  this  period,  he  entered  a  house  of  busi- 
ness in  the  metropolis.  Most  of  the  young  men  in  the 
same  house  were,  like  himself,  related  to  pious  fami- 
lies, and  had  received  a  religious  education.  But  "to 
nearly  all  of  them  London  was  full  of  novelty,  and  life 
apparently  intended  only  for  enjoyment."  BirrelFs 
disposition  was  in  the  highest  degree  sociable;  his 
manners  were  frank  and  affable,  and  his  powers  of 
communicating  amusement  Avere  singularly  great. 
"First,"  he  writes,  "one  part  of  the  Sunday,  and  then 
the  whole,  was  given  to  pleasure."  Those  sentiments 
which  form  the  shield  of  the  sanctity  of  the  day  of  rest 
were  gi^adually  obliterated,  and  it  became  as  secular 
as  any  other.  "It  would  but  unnecessarily  recall 
unpleasant  feelings,"  he  writes  in  his  diary,  "were  I 
to  recount  the  steps  by  which  I  was  led  so  far  over 
the  threshold  of  morality  and  right  principle  as  that 
theatres  and  Sunday  excursions  should  at  last  become 

*  Memoir  by  his  brother,  the  Rev.  Charles  Birrell. 


84  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

fjimiliar  to  me.  But  for  nearly  three  years,  avoiding 
the  path  of  wisdom,  I  wandered  far  into  the  ways  of 
sin." 

But  early  habits  are  not  easily  abandoned.  Fresh 
from  places  of  exciting  and  sinful  amusement,  Ebenezer 
Birrell  would  kneel  down  before  God  and  pray  that 
he  would  change  his  heart.  On  another  fact  which  is 
told  of  him,  the  Eev.  Thomas  Binney  has  beautifully 
remarked,  ''What  a  mysterious,  magical,  divine  thing 
is  a  mother's  love  !  How  it  nestles  about  the  heart, 
and  goes  with  the  man,  and  sj)eaks  to  him  pure  words, 
and  is  like  a  guardian  angel !  This  young  man  could 
never  take  any  money  that  came  to  him  from  his 
mother,  and  spend  that  upon  a  Sunday  excursion  or  a 
treat  to  a  theatre.  It  was  a  sacred  thing  with  him ; 
it  had  the  impression  and  inscription  of  his  mother's 
image,  and  his  mother's  purity,  and  his  mother's 
piety,  and  his  mother's  love.  It  was  a  sacred  thing 
to  him;  and  these  pleasures,  which  he  felt  to  be  ques- 
tionable or  felt  to  be  sinful,  wei-e  always  to  be  pro- 
vided for  by  other  resources,  and  by  money  that  came 
to  him  by  other  hands."  In  his  attendance  on  public 
worship  at  the  Weigh-house  Chapel,  this  young  man 
often  heard  his  character  described  and  his  sentence 
pronounced;  but  his  heart  would  not  j'^ield.  "Such 
convictions  were  usually  stifled  by  resorting  to  the 
idea  of  predestination.  He  attempted  to  believe  that 
his  conversion  would  be  produced,  or  prevented,  by 
the  efficacy  of  a  direct  purpose  on  the  part  of  his 
Creator,  without  respect,  in  any  sense,  to  his  own  con- 
duct. '  This  principle  I  applied,  also,'  he  remarks, 
'to  death;  so  that  I  went  calmly  to  bathe  or  row  in 
dangerous  parts  of  the  Thames,  believing  that  the  day 
of  my  death  was  settled,  and  die  then  I  should,  what- 


BIRRELL   AWAKENED.  85 

ever  I  was  doing,  or  wherever  I  was.'  It  was  thus 
that  he  struggled  to  master  and  to  extinguish  the  very- 
instinct  of  responsibility,  and  to  provoke  the  God  of 
truth  to  give  him  over  to  permanent  hardness  of  heart. 
But  the  termination  of  the  contest  drew  near."  In 
February,  1839,  he  heard  a  sermon  on  the  claims  of 
the  Bible  to  the  faith  and  obedience  of  mankind,  which 
left  on  his  mind  a  deep  impression  of  his  own  neglect 
of  the  blessed  book,  but  effected  no  reformation. 
Exactly  at  the  same  time,  one  of  his  sisters,  not  at  all 
aware  of  the  state  of  his  heart,  put  down  his  name  in 
the  list  of  Sunday-school  teachers  at  a  new  chapel  in 
Lambeth.  The  displeasure  which  this  awakened  in 
his  breast  was  "as  the  observation  of  a  planet  to  the 
navigator :  it  indicated  the  position  of  his  soul  in  rela- 
tion to  God."  On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which 
he  heard  what  his  sister  had  done,  he  went  to  York 
Eoad  Chapel,  to  hear  the  Eev.  Samuel  Martin  preach. 
And  the  result  will  be  best  described  in  his  own 
words : — 

"  Mortified  to  think  that  I  should  soon  have  to  give 
up  a  considerable  portion  of  my  leisure  time  on  the 
Sunday,  and  miserable  in  the  reflection  that  I  should 
have  to  keep  up  a  show  of  religion  in  my  heart,  and 
to  teach  the  children  to  observe  what  I  was  living  in 
open  violation  of  myself,  I  entered  that  chapel  with  a 
heart  burning  with  greater  enmity  to  God  than  I  had 
ever  experienced.  The  preacher's  text  was,  '  They 
all  with  one  consent  began  to  make  excuse.'  As  he 
proceeded,  my  bitter  feelings  were  gradually  softened 
down,  and  I  left  that  sanctuary  very  different  from 
what  I  had  entered  it, — serious  and  thoughtful.  There 
was  no  particular  part  of  the  discourse  with  which  I 
was  impressed  j  but  the  whole  set  me  on  a  train  of 


86  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

thought  respecting  my  present  condition  and  my 
future  prospects.  On  the  one  hand  I  loved  my  sins 
and  the  ways  of  the  world ;  and  when  I  reflected  upon 
them  it  appeared  impossible  that  I  could  give  them 
up.  On  the  other  hand  I  felt,  deeply  felt,  that  I  was 
unhappy.  I  knew,  I  saw,  that  God's  people  were 
happy,  and  that  I  might  be  converted  if  I  jDi'oceeded 
in  the  right  way.  These,  and  such  as  these,  were  my 
thoughts,  until  I  was  brought  in  some  measure  to  see 
what  a  sinner  I  was  in  the  sight  of  God.  I  remem- 
bered how  I  had  resisted  his  Holy  Spirit,  when  he  had 
formerly  spoken  to  me;  that  he  was  speaking  to  me 
again,  and  that  now  it  might  be  for  the  last  time;  so 
I  asked  mj^self,  'Why  should  I  wish  to  be  excused?' 
All  along  Blackfriars  Eoad  a  conflict  between  opposite 
j^rinciples  went  on  in  my  mind;  and,  as  I  stepped  on 
the  bridge,  I  was  led,  by  the  grace  of  God,  to  deter- 
mine to  cease  from  sin ;  to  open  that  volume  which 
had  never  been  opened  with  a  sincere  desire  for  know- 
ledge; and,  imploring  God's  blessing,  to  seek  the  way 
of  salvation  with  full  purpose  of  heart.  From  that 
moment  I  perceived  that  God  was  strengthening  me; 
for  from  that  time  I  had  no  difficulty  in  doing  what 
before  appeared  to  me  so  difficult, — giving  up  my  out- 
ward sins.  In  this  state  of  mind  I  got  home,  and  im- 
mediately retired  to  my  room,  and,  God  directing  me, 
the  book  I  took  up  was  one  which  you  [his  brother] 
had  given  me,  but  which  I  had  laid  aside,  not  expecting 
to  have  any  use  for  it, — 'James's  Anxious  Inquirer,' 
which  I  began  to  read  in  the  manner  he  recommends, 
with  earnest  prayer  to  God  that  it  might  be  blessed 
to  my  soul.  I  read  the  first  three  chapters  that 
night,  together  with  some  of  the  first  chapters  of 
Matthew,  and  rose  up  in  the  morning  still  determined 


THE    "ANXIOUS    INQUIRER."  87 

to  be  the  Lord's,  and  feeling  happy  in  my  determina- 
tion :  at  the  same  time  I  was  sorry  and  downcast  that 
I  did  not  feel  enough  the  enormity  of  ray  sins,  nor  had 
shed  tears,  (as  formerly  I  had  done  while  under  im- 
pressions,) nor  been  much  agitated;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, calm  and  composed.  AVhen  night  came  I  again 
retired  to  my  room,  still  very  unhappy  for  these 
reasons.  The  next  chapter  in  the  'Anxious  Inquirer' 
was  on  Repentance;  and  how  can  I  describe  the 
feelings  with  which  1  read  'You  are  not  to  suppose 
that  you  do  not  repent,  because  you  have  never  been 
the  subject  of  overwhelming  horror  and  excessive 
grief.  Persons  in  the  first  stages  of  religious  impres- 
sion are  sometimes  cast  down  and  discouraged, 
because  they  do  not  feel  those  agonizing  and  terrify- 
ing convictions  that  some  whom  they  have  heard  or 
read  of  have  experienced.  Others,  again,  are  greatly 
troubled,  because  they  do  not  and  cannot  shed  tears 
and  utter  groans  under  a  sense  of  sin,  as  some  do.  If 
they  could  either  be  wrought  up  to  horror  or  melted 
into  weeping,  they  should  then  take  some  comfort, 
and  have  some  hope  that  their  convictions  were 
genuine.'  I  returned  thanks  to  God  that  that  chapter 
had  ever  been  written.  Feeling  much  easier,  I  went 
on  to  read  the  next  chapter,  on  Faith.  I  read  there, 
'  You  are  never  safe,  reader,  until  you  have  faith.' 
Anxiously  I  inquired,  "What  is  faith  ?  I  read  again : — 
'Faith,  in  general,  means  a  belief  in  whatever  God 
has  testified  in  his  word;  but  faith  in  Christ  means 
the  belief  of  what  the  Scriptures  say  of  him, — of  his 
person,  offices,  and  work.  Y'ou  are  to  believe  that  he 
is  the  Son  of  God, — God  manifest  in  the  flesh,  God- 
man,  Mediator;  for  how  can  a  mere  creature  be  your 
saviour  ?    In  faith  j-ou  commit  youi-  soul  to  the  Lord 


88  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

Jesus.  What !  into  the  hands  of  a  mere  creature  ? 
The  divinity  of  Christ  is  thus  not  merely  an  article 
of  faith,  but  enters  also  into  the  foundation  of  ho^je. 
You  are  required  to  believe  in  the  doctrine  of  the 
atonement,  that  Christ  satisfied  divine  justice  for 
human  guilt,  having  been  made  a  propitiation  for  our 
sins,  and  that  now  his  sacrifice  and  righteousness  are 
the  only  ground  or  foundation  on  which  a  sinner 
can  be  accepted  or  acquitted  befoi'e  God.  Tou  are 
to  believe  that  all,  however  previously  guilty  and 
unworthy,  are  welcome  to  God  for  salvation,  without 
any  exception  or  any  difficulty  whatever.'  'Well,' 
I  said  to  myself,  'I  believe  that  Jesus  Christ  was 
the  Son  of  God,  that  he  came  down  from  heaven 
to  this  earth,  and  that  he  died  on  the  cross  that 
sinners  might  be  saved;'  but,  notwithstanding  this, 
I  seemed  waiting  in  expectation  of  something, — 
some  visible  and  perceptible  change,  —  something 
indicative  of  the  Spirit  of  God  coming  upon  me;  but 
I  felt  nothing;  I  was  the  same  as  before.  I  turned 
to  Matthew,  and  read  there,  in  the  ninth  chapter, 
of  the  woman  who  had  the  issue  of  blood,  and  whose 
faith  had  made  her  whole;  and  I  read  other  in- 
stances of  the  efficacy  of  faith;  but  they  did  not 
seem  to  me  to  apply  to  my  case.  They  had  exer- 
cised faith,  certainly,  but  then  they  saw  Christ  with 
their  eyes,  and  felt  that  they  had  been  healed.  Now, 
I  felt  nothing  of  this  sort;  I  could  see  nothing  by 
which  I  might  know  I  was  cured.  With  these  per- 
plexing thoughts,  I  returned  again  to  the  'Anxious 
Inquirer,'  and  read,  'Faith  is  not  a  belief  in  your 
own  personal  religion;  this  is  the  assurance  of  hope; 
but  it  is  a  belief  that  God  loves  sinnei's,  and  that 
Christ  died  for  sinners,  and  for  you  among  the  rest. 


FAITH    AND    PEACE.  89 

It  is  not  a  belief  that  you  are  a  real  Christian,  but 
that  Christ  is  wiUing  to  give  you  all  the  blessings 
included  in  that  term.  It  is  the  belief  of  something 
out  of  yourself.  The  object  of  faith  is  the  work  of 
Christ  for  you,  not  the  work  of  the  Spirit  in  you.  It 
is  to  rest  upon  the  word  and  work  of  Christ  for 
salvation;  to  depend  on  his  atonement  and  righteous- 
ness, and  upon  nothing  else,  for  acceptance  with 
God;  and,  really,  to  expect  salvation  because  he  has 
promised  it.'  I  then  perceived  that  I  had  doubted 
the  power  of  Christ  and  the  willingness  of  God. 
I  fell  down  on  my  knees  before  him,  and  rose  a 
believer  that  my  sins  were  pardoned  through  the 
blood  of  the  Lamb." 

This  is  not  a  narrative  of  fancies,  but  of  deep  con- 
victions and  solemn  realities.  To  the  end  of  life 
Ebenezer  Birrell  never  saw  reason  to  doubt  that 
divine  love  on  that  occasion  obtained  its  blessed  vic- 
tory over  the  ungodliness  of  his  heart.  His  character, 
thenceforward,  was  adorned  with  the  evidences  of 
genuine  piety.  His  conduct  in  the  warehouse,  and 
especially  among  his  associates,  exhibited  with  de- 
cision, but  without  ostentation,  the  change  which  he 
had  undergone.  On  his  natural  gentleness  there  was 
engrafted  the  boldness  which  religious  convictions  pro- 
duce. Within  three  years  from  the  time  of  his  con- 
version he  was  removed  from  the  world.  Throughout 
a  protracted  illness  his  Christian  character  shone 
with  a  mild  and  engaging  loveliness.  The  principles 
Avhich  gave  him  peace  when  he  was  awakened  to  a 
sense  of  personal  sinfulness  supported  him  in  death, 
and  his  confidence  never  forsook  him  that  he  was  in 
the  hands  of  a  ''most  lovino;  Father." 


90  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

For  our  fourth  example  we  select  a  lady  whose 
name  is  well  known  in  the  world  of  letters, — Caroline 
Fry,  the  author  of  "The  Listener,"  and  of  "Christ 
our  Example."* 

As  a  child,  Caroline  Fry  was  intensely  sensitive. 
Caroline  Fry;  " Backto scvcn or eight ycai's,  shc  could rc- 
briTge^'  we"ns'  member  an  intense,  unreasonable,  almost 
fTerT^dLcf ^a\'  maddening  anguish,  which  was  produced 
scptembe/iTth.  ^J  ^  scnsc  of  unkiudncss,  or  injustice,  or 
■^^^'  discouragement,  often  imaginary,  always 

exaggerated."  And  the  discijjline  of  a  too  indulgent 
father  was  not  much  fitted  to  correct  these  morbid 
sensibilities.  She  enjoj'ed  a  home-education  of  a  high 
order,  so  far  as  education  is  comprehended  in  mere 
instruction;  and  literary  tastes  were  cultivated  from 
childhood.  "  The  exact  morality  of  her  father's  house 
was  such,  that  she  did  not  remember  to  have  ever 
heard  a  free  expression,  or  an  indelicate  allusion, 
or  a  profane  or  immoral  word  in  jest  or  earnest. 
The  very  name  of  vices  and  follies  was  strange  to 
her  ear;  and  all  her  knowledge  of  the  living  world, 
its  passions  and  pursuits,  was  no  more  than  she 
learned  from  those  parts  of  the  newsj^apers  which 
her  father  desired  to  hear,  and  which  were  gene- 
rally read  aloud."  Her  earliest  remembered  plea- 
sure was  the  first-blown  flower  of  the  spring,  or 
the  new-born  lamb  in  her  father's  meadow;  she 
knows  distinctly  —  and  never  returns  to  her  native 
place  without  a  vivid  recurrence  of  the  impression 
— where  she  used  to  go  with  her  nurse  to  see 
if  the  wild  snowdrojD  was  budding,  to  gather 
the  first  primroses,  to  hunt  the  sweet  violets  from 

*  Our  information  respecting  Caroline  Fry  is  derived  from  her  "Autobiography." 


CAROLINE    FRi'.  91 

among  the   nettles,  where   the}^  were   yearly  to   be 
found." 

Of  such  a  one,  trained  amid  the  finest  influences 
of  nature,  it  will  be  said  by  some  that  she  needed  no 
conversion,  and  that  a  divine  life  must  have  been 
natural  to  her.  We  shall  see  how  far  she  formed  this 
judgment  of  herself  Her  religious  position  in  early 
life  she  describes  thus: — "Caroline  never  learned  to 
fear  sin,  as  sin, — least  of  all  as  measured  against  the 
law  of  God.  Her  first  notions  of  right  and  wrong 
were  such  as  she  gathered  from  her  reading;  a  purely 
heathen  code,  in  which  heroism  and  high-mindedness 
stood  as  the  first  of  virtues,  weakness  and  pusillanimity 
as  the  worst  of  vices.  To  be  faultless,  to  be  perfect, 
were  her  early  and  long-continued  desire  and  determi- 
nation; and  much  of  the  suffering  of  the  first  part  of 
her  life  arose  from  her  conscious  ill  success  in  the  go- 
vernment of  herself  No  one  ever  told  her  where  she 
might  have  help,  or  why  she  could  not  be  perfect. 
The  only  thing  of  which  she  never  thought,  for  which 
she  never  asked,  neVer  felt,  never  cared,  was  religion. 
True,  it  was  never  brought  under  her  observation; 
but  that  was  true  of  many  other  things  about  which 
her  curiosity  and  consideration  were  insatiable.  The 
religion  of  her  father's  house  will  seem  almost  a  cari- 
cature in  these  bestirring  days;  but  it  was  common 
enough  then.  Caroline  does  not  remember  an  indi- 
vidual in  the  family  ever  omitting  to  go  to  church 
twice  on  the  Sunday,  except  from  illness:  it  would 
have  been  thought  absolutely  wicked;  neither  does 
she  remember  any  instance  of  the  Sabbath  being  pro- 
faned by  weekday  occupations  and  pleasures;  cer- 
tainly she  never  heard  in  jest  or  earnest  the  holy 
Name  profaned,  or  his  word  and  power  disputed  or 


y'::  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

irreverently  treated.  But,  except  on  Sunday,  the  Bible 
never  left  its  shelf,  and  religion  was  not  anybody's 
business  in  the  week.  During  the  Sunday,  religious 
books,  if  they  may  be  so  called,  came  forth  out  of  their 
hiding-places,  and  all  others  disappeared.  The  chil- 
dren leainied  and  repeated  the  Collects  and  the  Church 
catechism, — the  only  lesson  which  to  Caroline  appeared 
a  hardship,  and  with  good  reason,  for  no  one  ever  told 
her  what  it  meant  and  how  she  was  interested  in  it." 

"No  nurse  nor  mother  ever  talked  to  her  of  Jesus' 
love,  nor  told  her  stories  of  his  sufferings,  nor  ever 
warned  her  of  God's  displeasure.  Her  infant  mind 
was  never  stored  with  sacred  words,  nor  her  memory 
exercised  with  Holj^Writ.  When  she  listens  now  to  the 
exercises  of  the  infant  or  the  Sunday-school,  deeply 
can  she  estimate,  while  they  cannot,  the  value  of  the 
instructions  thus  received  in  preparation  for  the  day 
of  grace.  Her  reading  of  the  Scriptures  was  confined 
to  a  chapter  read  every  Sunday  evening  by  each  of  the 
four  younger  children  to  their  parents  and  the  flimily 
assembled;  but,  as  they  always  chose  what  they  would 
read,  it  seldom  vai-ied  beyond  the  stories  of  the 
Old  Testament, — David  and  Goliath,  Joseph  and  his 
brethren,  Daniel  in  the  lions'  den,  etc.  Never  ap- 
plied, never  remarked  upon  by  any  one,  this  was  fol- 
lowed by  one  of  Blair's  or  other  similar  lectures,  read 
aloud  by  some  one  of  the  elders;  and  then  religion 
was  dismissed  till  the  next  Sabbath.  The  only  unseen 
world  that  occupied  little  Caroline's  attention  was 
that  of  the  classic  poets."  These  statements  are  her 
own. 

Young's  "Night  Thoughts"  fell  into  her  hands  at 
a  time  when  she  was  prepared  to  take  the  poetry  of 
life,  of  time,  and  of  eternity,  in  the  stead  of  its  reali- 


CAROLINE    FRY    IN    THE    WORLD.  93 

ties.  She  was  enraptured  with  Young's  poetry,  and 
acquired  from  it,  at  the  least,  a  quickened  sensibility 
to  the  follies  of  life:  viewed,  however,  only  as  follies, 
not  as  sin;  weighed  by  reason  and  philosophy,  not  by 
the  word  of  God.  Of  the  period  between  fourteen 
and  seventeen  years  of  age  she  remembered  nothing 
afterwards  "but  happiness,  freedom,  mirth,  hilarity, 
good-humour  with  every  one  and  delight  in  every 
thing."  By  consent  of  her  family,  she  was  "its  wit, 
its  life,  its  plaything,  its  spoiled  child,  from  first  to 
last."  And  more  than  twenty  years  from  this  period 
were  given  to  her  to  try  that  world  of  fashion  and 
gayety  after  which  she  now  began  to  long,  before  she 
found  her  rest  in  God. 

We  now  find  her  in  London,  under  the  roof  of  a 
relative  of  polished  manners  and  brilliant  wit.  In 
her  father's  house  she  had  never  heard  a  profane  or 
licentious  expression;  nothing  came  amiss  here  to  point 
a  jest,  provided  it  was  not  coarse  or  low.  "Caro- 
line does  not  remember  to  have  been  shocked."  The 
drive  in  the  park  was  more  frequent  than  the  visit 
to  church.  On  occasion  of  her  relative's  absence 
from  home,  his  wife  and  Caroline  Fry,  wanting  some- 
thing to  do,  would  go  to  church  on  the  Sunday  morn- 
ing to  pass  the  time.  In  one  of  these  freaks  "she 
heard,  for  the  only  time,  that  eminent  man  of  God, 
Mr.  Cecil;  but  it  was  with  absolute  offence  and  dis- 
gust." She  had  heard  the  same  doctrines  before  in 
Lady  Huntingdon's  chapel  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  whither 
she  went  occasionally  after  her  father's  death;  and  she 
understood  them,  but  her  heart  rejected  them.  In  the 
midst  of  the  gayety  of  London  she  "ceased  to  pei-form 
the  ceremony  of  prayer  in  her  chamber  night  and 
morning,  (she  has  no  reason  to  believe  that  she  had 


94  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

ever  really  prayed,)  from  that  time  never  more  to  bend 
the  knee  in  private,  or  her  heart  anywhere,  before  the 
God  of  heaven,  until  of  his  sovereign  mercy  she  was 
born  anew." 

Before  this  great  event  took  place,  Caroline  Fry 
descended  into  a  still  lower  depth  of  irreligion  than 
we  have  indicated.  At  her  relative's  table  there  was 
a  frequent  guest,  of  literary  reputation,  of  venerable 
age,  courtly  and  high-bred,  whose  "wit  spared  nothing 
human  or  divine;  friends,  life,  mortality,  religion,  no- 
thing barred  the  jest."  "As  was  most  natural,  Caro- 
line attached  herself  entirely  to  this  fascinating  old 
man."  Her  own  account  of  his  influence  over  her  is 
most  instructive.  If  his  insidious  flatteiy  "failed  to 
make  any  impression  on  her  delicacy,  artlessness,  and 
purity  of  thought  and  feeling,  there  was  that  in  which, 
the  influence  of  his  corrupt  companionship  did  not 
fail :  she  was  too  innocent  for  his  immorality,  she  was 
just  ready  for  his  irreligion.  Never,  perhaps,  at  the 
early  age  of  nineteen  and  twenty,  in  a  heart  of  such 
simplicity  and  uncorruptness  and  real  ignorance  of 
evil,  was  the  enmity  of  the  fallen  nature  so  developed. 
We  wish  to  call  attention  to  it,  (she  wrote  many  years 
after;)  and  if  we  have  been  writing  what  seems  use- 
less to  detail,  we  have  done  so  on  purpose  to  give  the 
full  value  to  this  particular  point.  It  is  written  that 
the  natural  heart  is  'enmity'  against  God.  Who 
believes  this  as  a  universal  truth?  When  vice  has 
indurated  the  heart,  when  habit  has  vitiated  and  the 
world  corrupted  it,  it  may  be  so;  but  what  virtuous, 
happy,  young,  and  unspoiled  nature  ever  thought  of 
hatred  towards  the  God  that  made  us?  Fearlessness, 
indifference,  forgetfulness,  are  natural;  but  not,  surely 
not,  'enmity.'     Perhaps  there  are  very  few  believers 


THE  heart's  atheism.  95 

looking  back  upon  their  days  of  gay  and  joyous  god- 
lessness  that  can  at  all  verify  the  Scripture  statement 
in  themselves  :  how  should  they  have  hated  the  Being 
they  never  thought  about  and  cared  for,  who  never 
crossed  their  path  with  present  ills,  nor  marred  their 
pleasures  with  fear  of  retribution  ?  But  here,  in  the 
bosom  of  a  simple  girl,  brought  up  in  all  the  virtuous 
regularity  and  real  religious  observance  of  a  secluded 
country-life, — a  stranger  to  all  that  is  morally  evil,  to 
a  degree  that  would  not  be  credited  if  it  were  fully 
exjDlained, — with  a  mind  solidly  instructed,  and  unused 
to  any  manner  of  evil  influence  by  books  or  company, 
hitherto  a  stranger  to  sorrows,  wrongs,  and  fears,  that 
tend  to  harden  the  ungracious  heart, — in  this  un- 
vitiated,  unworldly  bosom  was  manifested  at  that 
early  age,  clear  and  strong  to  her  memory  as  if  it  was 
of  yesterday,  a  living,  active  hatred  to  the  very  name 
of  God.  She  persuaded  herself  there  was  no  God, 
and  thought  she  believed  her  own  heart's  lie;  but  if 
she  did,  why  did  she  hate  him?  "Why  did  she  feel 
such  renovated  delight  when  his  name  was  the  subject 
of  the  profane  old  poet's  wit  ?  '  Is"o  God'  was  probably 
with  her,  as  it  probably  is  with  every  other  infidel, 
the  determination  of  the  heart,  and  not  of  the  judg- 
ment. Thus,  while  she  thought  herself  above  all  reli- 
gious doubts,  she  seized  delightedly  on  every  manifes- 
tation of  infidelity  in  those  around  her,  and  laughed 
with  the  very  utmost  zest  of  gratified  aversion  at 
every  profanation  of  the  holy  Name." 

After  three  years  of  London  life,  Caroline  Fry 
found  another  home  in  the  country.  But  now  she 
was  "an  atheist  in  heart,  and  only  not  quite  one 
in  understanding."  She  was  no  longer,  however,  un- 
informed upon  religion.     "She  had  read  books,  heard 


96  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

preachers^  known  saints;  several  of  her  own  family 
were  already  under  the  influence  of  divine  grace;  she 
knew  and  hated  all,  and  most  intensely  Him  of  whom 

is  all To  the  few  who  would  speak  to  her 

upon  religion  she  listened  with  silent  amenity  or 
studied  philosophical  indiff'erence.  They  had  a  right 
to  their  opinions;  she  would  not  have  disturbed  them 
on  any  account;  since  they  liked  to  think  so,  there 
was  no  harm  in  doing  it."  ....  ''She  had  no  dislike 
to  hear  the  truth  preached,  or  to  the  conversation  of 
those  who  believed  it,  or  to  their  persons.  She  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  disliking  the  CoiDernican  sys- 
tem or  its  advocates,  or  any  other  scientific  contro- 
versy. Her  eldest  brother  was  at  this  time  a  dis- 
tinguished minister  and  writer  in  the  church  of 
Christ, — a  man  of  acknowledged  talent  and  learning. 
Caroline  had  heard  him  preach,  and  read  his  works, 
and  held  him  in  very  high  esteem  and  much  aflPection ; 
but  his  religious  oj)inions  had  not  the  smallest  in- 
fluence. He  considered  Caroline  as  the  most  hopeless 
of  his  family,  several  of  whom  were  beginning  to  be 
spiritually  affected." 

"  She  did  not  dislike  to  hear  the  truth,  but  there 
was  that  which  she  did  dislike,  which  she  hated, — the 
word  that  taught  it.  Neither  the  poetic  beauties  nor 
the  historic  interest  of  the  Bible  could  give  it  any 
charm.  She  could  not  endure  it,  she  would  not  read 
it;  and,  when  read  before  her,  she  deliberately  deter- 
mined not  to  listen."  How  was  a  mind  to  be  reached 
that  was  thus  trenched  and  fortified  ? 

At  this  momentous  period  Caroline  Fry  was  re- 
siding in  a  family  where  every  thing  was  against  the 
probability  of  her  receiving  religious  impressions,  ''ex- 
cept the  restless,  unsatisfied,  unhappy  state  of  her  own 


THE   PRAYER   OF   MISERY.  97 

mind,  displeased  with  every  thing  around  her  and 
within  her;  weary  and  disgusted  with  the  present, 
and  gloomy  and  hopeless  of  the  future,  without  a 
single  sorrow  but  the  absence  of  all  joy."  Living  in 
the  utter  neglect  of  prayer,  there  were  times  when,  not 
upon  her  knees  but  on  her  bed,  she  would  give  mental 
expression  to  her  feelings  thus:— "God,  if  thou  art 
a  God,  I  do  not  love  thee,  I  do  not  want  thee,  I  do  not 
believe  in  any  happiness  in  thee;  but  I  am  miserable 
as  I  am ;  give  me  what  I  do  not  seek,  do  not  like,  do 
not  want,  if  thou  canst  make  me  happy;  I  am  tired 
of  this  world :  if  there  is  any  thing  better,  give  it  me." 
"In  the  destitution  of  her  affections  at  this  mo- 
ment, Caroline  fixed  them  with  vehement  partiality 
on  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  in  an  adjoining  parish." 
This  young  lady  was  beautiful  and  fascinating,  but 
disappointments  of  a  painful  character  had  made  her 
moody  and  melancholy.  She  denounced  the  world, 
she  wished  to  leave  it,  she  talked  much  of  its  vanity; 
she  was,  or  thought  she  was,  of  a  consumptive  habit, 
and  not  likely  to  live  many  years ;  she  talked  much 
of  death,  and  much  of  eternity,  and  much  of  God. 
"  I  do  not  remember,"  says  Miss  Fry,  "  that  she  ever 
spoke  of  Christ,  of  atoning  merit,  or  redeeming  love; 
I  beHeve  she  knew  them  not.  She  talked  of  the 
w^orld's  emptiness,  levity,  and  injustice.  I  do  not 
remember  that  she  ever  spoke  of  her  own  sin.  I 
believe  her  religion  was  purely  sentimental." 

To  this  friend  Caroline  never  spoke  of  her  unbelief, 
nor  confessed  the  total  absence  of  religious  feeling 
in  her  bosom.  But  she  continually  bewailed  her 
impetuosity  and  want  of  self-control,  compared  with 
the  composure  and  philosophy  manifested  by  her 
friend  on  all  occasions.  Friendship,  however,  looked 
7 


98  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

through  the  cover  of  silence  that  slightly  concealed 
Caroline's  infidelity.  And  her  friend  addressed  a 
letter  to  her,  to  tell  her  that  religion  was  the  source 
of  all  the  advantage  over  her  which  Caroline  had  so 
often  noticed  and  so  often  envied, — all  that  she  called 
philosophy.  The  truth,  the  bare,  bald  truth, — that 
religion  was  the  one  thing  needful  that  she  had  not, — 
struck  conviction  to  Miss  Fry's  soul :  it  pierced  to 
the  very  depths  of  her  moral  being.  Her  first 
emotion  on  perusal  of  the  letter  was  a  paroxysm 
of  grief  and  indignation, — grief  that  the  idol  of  her 
affections  should  condemn  her,  and  indignation  that 
she  should  presume  to  teach  her;  the  next  was  a 
determined  resolution  that  her  friend  should  not 
influence  or  persuade  her.  On  three  successive 
days  she  attempted  to  answer  the  letter,  but  could 
not.  ''  Before  the  third  night  arrived,  the  struggle 
was  over;  the  battle  had  been  fought  and  won;  the 
strong  man  armed  was  vanquished;  the  banner  of 
Jesus  waved  peacefully  over  the  subdued  and  pros- 
trate spirit  of  the  infidel  despiser  of  his  word,  the 
conscious  hater  of  his  most  jjrecious  name." 

"  '  Lord,  save  me,  or  I  perish,'  has  been,  and  is, 
from  first  to  last,  the  sum  of  her  religion,  dated  from 
that  most  wondrous  night,  the  first  in  which  she 
knelt  before  the  cross;  in  which  she  prayed;  in 
which  she  slept  in  Jesus." 

"  The  most  immediate  result  of  this  change  of 
heart  was,  the  happiness  to  which  it  had  at  once 
restored  her :  at  peace  with  God,  she  made  up  her 
quarrel  with  all  things.  The  zest  of  life  returned; 
she  no  longer  quarrelled  with  her  destiny,  or  felt 
distaste  of  all  her  pursuits,  or  grew  weary  of  her 
existence  without  any  reason.     The  void  was  filled; 


CHANGED   AND    HAPPY.  99 

she  never  after  wanted  something  to  do,  or  something 
to  love,  or  something  to  look  forward  to;  the  less 
there  was  of  earth,  the  more  there  was  of  heaven  in 
her  vision ;  whenever  man  failed  her,  Christ  took  her 
up.  She  had  no  more  stagnant  waters,  long  as  her 
voyage  was  through  troubled  ones ;  she  was,  with  all 
the  leaven  of  the  older  nature  that  remained,  essen- 
tially a  new  creature  to  herself." 

This  great  revolution  was  as  entire  as  it  was 
sudden.  It  was  no  mere  paroxysm  or  convulsion  of 
soul.  It  was  a  change  which  brought  with  it  new 
principles  of  life.  And,  what  may  seem  most  strange, 
these  principles  were  very  different  from  those  of  the 
friend  who  was  the  unconscious  instrument  of  Miss 
Fry's  conversion.  It  was  not  to  a  mere  religiousness, 
earnest  and  pharasaic,  that  she  emerged  out  of  her 
heart-chosen  infidelity ;  it  was  to  a  faith  in  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  as  the  one  Mediator  and  High-Priest,  and 
to  a  simple-hearted  trust  in  him  as  all  her  salvation. 
The  bare  truth  that  religion  is  the  one  thing  needful 
stung  her  to  the  quick ;  but  the  seeds  of  other  truths 
were  in  her  mind,  though  hated  and  disbelieved.  And 
these  sprang  up,  now  that  the  fallow  ground  was 
broken,  and  produced  those  fruits  of  humble  trust  in 
the  Saviour  of  sinners,  devout  love  to  his  holy  name, 
and  an  earnest  zeal  to  consecrate  to  his  praise  a  life 
that  had  been  redeemed  by  his  mercy.  The  believer 
in  Holy  Scripture  will  not  hesitate  to  see  in  all  this 
the  operation  of  a  power  that  is  more  than  human; 
and  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  maintain  that  no  other 
rational  solution  can  be  given  of  the  change. 

Colonel  Gardiner,  John  Urquhart,  Ebenezer  Birrell, 
and  Caroline  Fry  may  be  regarded  as  representative 


100  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

cases;  and  we  may  infer  from  them  the  moral  condi- 
tion of  mankind  in  relation  to  God.  If  we  had  no 
other  means  of  judgment,  it  would  not,  indeed,  be  safe 
to  stake  a  general  conclusion  on  so  small  a  number 
of  instances.  But  it  is  sustained  by  Bible  testi- 
mony, and  by  our  knowledge  of  human  society  in 
general. 

What,  then,  is  man,  morally,  in  relation  to  God? 
Is  there  one  moral  attribute  characteristic  in  common 
of  all  the  individuals  we  have  named  ? 

We  have  maintained  that  man  is  a  religious  being 
in  this  sense,  that  the  most  distinctive  character  of 
his  nature  is  his  faculty  of  knowing,  loving,  and 
sei-ving  God.  But  it  is  equally  true  that,  wherever 
this  faculty  is  in  actual  exercise  apart  from  the 
teachings  of  revelation,  its  exercise  is  fearfully 
defective  or  perverse.  We  shall  find  the  religious 
susceptibility  of  our  nature  exercised  nowhere  in- 
telligently and  rightly  without  the  guidance  of  God's 
own  book.  Most  nations  still  derive  some  advantage 
from  the  surviving  fragments  of  a  primeval  knowledge 
which  was  carried  by  their  ancestors  from  the  plains 
of  Shinar,  the  second  birthplace  of  the  human  family; 
and  all  nations  have  the  benefit  of  daily  and  ceaseless 
instruction  from  the  works  of  God;  for  "  The  heavens 
declare  his  glory,  and  the  firmament  showeth  his  liandi- 
Avork:  day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,  and  night  unto 
night  showeth  knowledge."  "The  invisible  things 
of  God  from  the  creation  of  the  world  are  clearly 
seen,  being  understood  by  the  things  that  are  made, 
even  his  eternal  power  and  Godhead."  But  such  is 
man's  moral  inaptitude  to  receive  lessons  of  God, 
that  he  does  not  hear  the  voice  which  nature  utters 
so  loudly,  or  see  the  truths  which  are  engraven  in 


THE   TEMPLE   DESERTED.  101 

light  over  the  entire  surface  of  the  universe.  The 
apostoHc  explanation  is  the  only  sufficient  one  of 
the  universal  blindness  which  has  fallen  upon  the 
nations,  whether  refined  or  barbarous,  in  reference  to 
the  character  and  worship  of  the  true  God:— "When 

they  knew  God,  they  glorified  him  not  as  God 

They  did  not  like  to  retain  God  in  their  knowledge." 
This  estrangement  of  the  heart  from  God,  which 
displays  itself  on  so  large  a  scale  in  the  varied  idola- 
tries and  sensualities  of  the  world,  is  the  characteristic 
of  our  moral  nature,— that  which  unites  into  an  evil 
oneness  such  opposites  as  James  Gardiner  and  John 
TJrquhart.     The  practised  rake  and  the  youth  of  un- 
sullied virtue  had  this  in  common  before  their  con- 
version, that  they  were  "without  God"  as  an  object 
of  filial  reverence  and  love.     And  in  this  they  were 
only  in  fellowship  with  the  whole  race  of  mankind. 
The  sublime  and  affecting  words  of  John  Howe  are 
not  the  less  true  that  they  are  based  on  a  figure,— the 
very  natural  figure  which  represents  man  as  a  temple 
of  God:— "The  stately  ruins  are  visible  to  every  eye, 
that  bear  in  their  front  (yet  extant)  this  doleful  in- 
scription:—'Here   God   once  dwelt.'     Enough  ap- 
pears of  the  admirable  frame  and  structure  of  the  soul 
of  man  to  show  the  divine  presence  did  some  time  re- 
side in  it;  more  than  enough  of  vicious  deformity  to 
proclaim  he  is  now  retired  and  gone.     The  lamps  are 
extinct,  the  altar  overturned;  the  light  and  love  are 
now  vanished,  which  did  the  one  shine  with  so  hea- 
venly brightness,  the  other  burn  with  so  pious  fervour; 
the  golden  candlestick  is  defaced,  and  thrown  away  as 
a  useless  thing,  to  make  room  for  the  throne  of  the 
prince  of  darkness;   the  sacred  incense,  which  sent 
rolling  up  in  clouds  its  rich  perfumes,  is  exchanged 


102  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

for  a  poisonous,  hellish  vapour.  The  comely  order  of 
this  house  is  turned  all  into  confusion;  the  beauties 
of  holiness  into  noisome  impurities;  the  house  of 
prayer  into  a  den  of  thieves.  The  noble  powers  which 
were  designed  and  dedicated  to  divine  contemplation 
and  delight  are  alienated  to  the  service  of  the  most 
despicable  idols,  and  employed  unto  vilest  intentions 
and  embraces;  to  behold  and  admire  lying  vanities, 
to  indulge  and  cherish  lust  and  wickedness.  What ! 
have  not  'the  enemies  done  wickedly  in  the  sanc- 
tuary'? How  have  'they  broken  down  the  carved 
work  thereof !  Look  upon  the  fragments  of  that 
curious  sculpture  which  once  adorned  the  palace  of 
the  great  King;  the  relics  of  common  notions;  the 
lively  points  of  some  undefaced  truth;  the  fair  ideas 
of  things;  the  yet  legible  precepts  that  relate  to  j^rac- 
tice.  Behold  with  what  accuracy  the  broken  pieces 
show  these  to  have  been  engraven  by  the  finger  of 
God,  and  how  they  now  lie  torn  and  scattered,  one 
in  this  dark  corner,  another  in  that.  .  .  .  You  come 
amidst  all  this  confusion  as  into  the  ruined  j)alace  of 
some  great  prince,  in  which  you  see  here  the  frag- 
ments of  a  noble  pillar,  there  the  shattered  pieces  of 
some  curious  imagery,  and  all  lying  neglected  and 
useless  among  heaps  of  dirt.  He  that  invites  you  to 
take  a  view  of  the  soul  of  man  gives  you  but  such 
another  prospect,  and  doth  but  say  to  you,  '  Behold 
the  desolation;'  all  things  rude  and  waste.  So  that, 
should  there  be  any  pretence  to  the  divine  presence, 
it  might  be  said,  'If  God  be  here,  why  is  it  thus?' 
The  faded  glory,  the  darkness,  the  disorder,  the  im- 
purity, the  decayed  state  in  all  respects  of  this  temple, 
too  plainly  show  the  great  Inhabitant  is  gone.'' 

Hence,  the  repentance  on  which  the  Bible  insists  as 


MAN    WITHOUT    GOD.  103 

universally  necessary  is  "repentance  toioards  God." 
*'The  most  flagrant  wickedness  of  our  unconverted 
condition  is  the  ungodliness  of  that  condition.  Most 
expressive,  in  its  proper  and  full  sense,  is  our  term 
'godliness/  as  denoting  what  ought  ever  to  be  deemed 
the  natural  bent  of  the  soul  towards  God;  its  crea- 
turely,  its  filial  temper  of  dependence,  veneration, 
love,  and  duty.  The  loss  of  this  most  precious  dis- 
position is  'human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot.' 
But  the  'carnal  mind'  is  pronounced  to  be,  and  by 
the  most  deeply  thoughtful  is  ever  painfully  felt  to 
be,  'enmity  against  God,'  and  the  bitter  source  of 
all  evil.  Nor  is  this  unnatural,  uncreaturely,  un- 
filial  temper  ever  removed,  except  by  a  true  change 
of  heart.  So  that  true  repentance  is  emj)hatically 
repentance  'towards  God,  leading  to  conduct  not 
only  'sober  and  righteous,'  but  'godly'  also;  and 
bringing  those  on  whom  it  operates,  not  only  to  'do 
justly  and  to  love  mercy,'  but  'to  walk  humbly  with 
God.'  The  heart  thus  wrought  upon  may  still  be  a 
very  imperfect  heart;  but  it  is  no  longer,  in  the  sense 
in  which  it  had  previously  been  so,  an  ungodly  heart." 
Another  opportunity  will  occur  of  showing  the 
inseparable  connection  there  is  between  "repentance 
towards  God"  and  "faith  towards  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ."  At  present  we  wish  to  mark  with  emphasis 
that  no  degree  of  human  virtuousness  renders  unne- 
cessary that  great  change  which  introduces  into  the 
soul  the  principles  and  aff'ections  of  the  divine  life, — 
filial  love  and  reverence  to  our  God  and  Father  in 
heaven.  Actions  uninspired  by  these  motives  "may 
vary  in  beauty  or  in  value,  from  the  most  repulsive 
forms  of  human  depravity  to  the  fairest  imj)ul8e8  of 
social  aflection;  but  they  are  all  equally  remote  from 


104  TUE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

the  preparatory  life  of  heaven,  in  so  far  as  they  are 
apart  from  God,  and  would  equally  exist  were  God 
conceived  to  exist  no  more." 

The  ground  and  substance  of  the  charge  which 
religion  brings  against  the  world  is  not  that  it  does 
not  abound  in  manifestations  of  moral  as  well  as  of 
physical  beauty.  "AVhat  it  does  assert  is  this: — that 
all  which  is  excellent  in  the  natural  man  is  excellent 
irrespectively  of  his  God;  that  he  loves,  hates,  pre- 
fers, rejects, — and  often  rightly  too, — but  without 
any  thought  of  God's  laws  of  preference  and  rejec- 
tion; that  thus  all  —  and  there  is  much  —  that  is 
beautiful  in  his  best  impulses  is  beautiful  only  as  the 
flower  or  the  landscape  is  beau.tiful;  his  heart  as 
little  moving  through  its  circle  of  social  kindness 
from  a  desire  to  approve  itself  to  the  God  who  has 
commanded  them,  as  the  flower  expands  its  petals 
and  sheds  its  fragrance  in  voluntary  obedience  to 
Him  who  created  it, — the  one  beauty  being  as  much 
and  as  little  religious  as  the  other."  "I  deal  not," 
says  Professor  Butler,  from  whom  we  quote  these 
just  and  striking  observations, — "I  deal  not  now  with 
open  and  avowed  vice.  My  object  is  to  prevent  mis- 
conception, obscurity,  self-deceit;  and  no  subtlety  of 
self-hypocrisy  can  reconcile,  with  the  law  and  love 
of  God,  vices  which  the  world  itself  professes  to  dis- 
countenance. I  come  among  the  amiabilities,  the 
noblenesses,  the  stern  and  lofty  virtues,  of  our  social 
life.  It  is  there  that  the  warfare  against  man's  fancied 
perfection  must  be  prosecuted,  and  the  true  nature 
of  that  one  principle  of  Chi-istian  excellence  which 
is  yet  to  be  the  light  and  blessedness  of  heaven  vin- 
dicated against  all  its  counterfeits.  It  is  these  virtues 
which   the   man  of  the  world   and   the  philosopher 


THE    BEST    WITHOUT   GOD.  105 

equally  declare  themselves  unable  to  conciliate  with 
the  uncompromising  denunciations  of  the  gospel.  It 
is  these  in  which  I  find  them  the  most  amply  justi- 
fied. The  depravity  of  the  world  is  just  its  for- 
getfulness,  imjiatience,  contempt  of  its  God;  the 
godless  excellences,  the  unsanctified  noblenesses,  of 
man,  are  the  truest,  the  most  awful  proofs  of  the 
fact.  That  the  murderer,  the  adulterer,  the  thief, 
should  disclaim  subjectien  to  his  God  is  sad,  but 
scarcely  surprising;  the  depth,  the  universality  of  the 
rebellion  is  seen  in  the  independence  of  our  very 
virtues  upon  God;  in  the  vast  sphere  of  human 
excellence  into  which  God  never  once  enters;  in  the 
amiability  that  loves  all  but  God;  in  the  self-devotion 
that  never  surrendered  one  gratification  for  the  sake 
of  God;  in  the  indomitable  energy  that  never  wrought 
one  persevering  work  for  God;  in  the  enduring  pa- 
tience that  faints  under  no  weight  of  toil  except  the 
labour  of  adoring  and  praising  God.  This  it  is  which 
really  demonstrates  the  alienation  of  the  w^orld  from 
its  Maker,  that  its  best  affections  should  thus  be 
affections  to  all  but  him;  that  not  the  worst  alone,  or 
the  most  degraded,  but  the  best  and  loftiest  natures 
among  us  should  be  banded  in  this  conspiracy  to  exile 
him  from  the  world  he  has  made;  that,  when  he  thus 
'comes  to  his  own,'  'his  own'  should  'receive  him 
not;'  that  he  should  have  to  behold  the  fairest  things 
he  has  formed — kindness,  gratitude,  and  love — em- 
bracing every  object  but  himself;  the  loveliest  feelings 
he  has  implanted  taking  root  and  growing  and  blossom- 
ing through  the  world,  to  bear  fruit  for  all  but  him." 

By  this  evil  characteristic  of  our  nature, — its  ungod- 
liness,— the  rake  and  the  man  of  virtue,  the  most  savage 


106  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

and  the  most  refined,  are  joined,  as  we  have  said,  in  an 
evil  oneness.  Hence  may  be  inferred,  by  contrast, 
the  primary  and  most  obvious  feature  of  the  divine 
life,  the  recognition  of  God  in  all  things;  not,  how- 
ever, the  mere  earnest  recognition  of  him,  as  we  have 
seen  sufficiently  in  the  example  of  Saul  of  Tarsus,  but 
that  loving  recognition  which  is  characteristic  of  the 
humbled,  penitent,  and  pardoned  child. 

But  a  few  years  ago  an  Indian  Brahmin  became  a 
Christian.  By  the  operation  of  an  unjust  law,  he  was 
deprived  of  his  property,  separated  from  his  wife  and 
children,  and  cast  on  the  tender  mercies  of  a  cruel 
world.  Loathed  as  a  leper  by  those  who  were  dearest 
to  his  heart,  the  question  was  put  to  him.  What  have 
you  gained  by  becoming  a  Christian?  "Much,"  he 
replied,  "much:  I  have  learned  to  say,  'Our  Father 
which  art  in  heaven.'"  He  had  acquired  a  know- 
ledge of  the  one  true  God  as  his  Father  in  Christ. 
By  this  the  troubled  sea  of  his  heart  was  quieted,  the 
earnest  longings  of  his  soul  were  satisfied,  and  he 
could  endure  to  be  an  outcast  for  Christ's  sake. 

In  this  same  filial  recognition  of  God  as  our  Father, 
the  foremost  characteristic  of  the  Divine  Life,  we  have 
the  mightiest  and  happiest  stimulus  to  our  conscience. 
The  divine  authority  does  not  become  less  binding 
because  it  is  the  authority  of  our  Father,  but  a  new 
class  of  feelings  comes  into  play,  powerfully  and  yet 
sweetly  persuasive.  They  who  are  thus  "alive  unto 
God"  do  their  work  not  as  under  the  eye  of  a  great 
taskmaster,  but  as  under  the  eye  of  their  loved  and 
loving  Father. 


PART   THE   SECOND. 

THE     DIVINE     LIFE:     ITS     ORIGINATION. 

FACTS. 

Contents. — Diversity  and  Unity — Remarks  of  Wilberforce,  Chal- 
mers, and  Fletcher — Miracles  of  Christ — Changes  in  Nature — 
First  Class  of  Instances :  John  Foster,  R.  Morrison,  Knibb — 
Second  Class  :  Bengel,  Blackader,  J.  J.  Gurney,  J.  Fletcher,  Mrs. 
Graham — Thii-d  Class:  Paul,  Philippian  Jailer,  C.  Anderson — 
Fourth  Class:  John  Bunyan,  Major-General  Andrew  Burn — 
Fifth  Class :  Bilney,  Archer  Butler,  M.  Boos — Sixth  Class :  Ly t- 
tleton.  West,  Jenyns,  Dykern,  Rochester,  Wilson,  H.  K.  White — 
Seventh  Class :  Inspiration  and  Constitutional  Peculiarities,  Jona- 
than Edwards,  Mrs.  Phelps — Remarks. 


"There  are  diversities  of  operation,  but  it  is  the  same  God  which 
worketh  all  in  all."— The  Apostle  Paul,  (1  Cor.  xii.  6.) 

"  The  appearance  of  a  new  personality  sanctified  by  the  divine  princi- 
ple of  life  necessarily  forms  a  great  era  in  life,  but  the  commencement  of 
this  era  is  not  (always)  marked  with  perfect  precision  and  distinctness  : 
the  new  creation  manifests  itself  more  or  less  gradually  by  its  effects : — 
<  The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth.'  "— Neander. 

107 


"These  things  happened  unto  them  for  ensamples." — The  Apostle 
Paol,  (1  Cor.  X.  11.) 

"  Scott's  Force  of  Truth  is  an  example :  Doddridge's  Rise  and  Pro- 
gress of  Religion  in  the  Soul,  another  :  and  last,  though  not  least,  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress.  I  pronounce  them  all  to  be  excellent,  and  that  there 
are  many  exemplifications  as  they  describe.  But  the  process  (described 
in  these  books)  is  not  authoritative,  nor  is  it  universal.  The  Spirit 
taketh  its  own  way  with  each  individual,  and  you  know  it  only  by  its 
fruits." — Dr.  Chalmers. 

"This  change  is  discovered  in  people  of  all  temperaments,  in  the 
phlegmatic  as  well  as  the  ardent,  in  the  slow  and  cautious  as  well  as  the 
impetuous  and  sanguine,  in  minds  wholly  subject  to  the  understanding 
as  well  as  those  that  submit  more  to  the  dominion  of  the  imagination. 
It  takes  place  in  people  of  all  ranks  and  conditions,  in  the  wise  and 
learned  as  well  as  the  simple  and  ignorant;  in  persons  insulated  by 
society  of  a  different  cast,  and  strongly  prejudiced  against  the  belief  of 
such  a  change." — Dr.  Edward  D.  Griffin. 

108 


THE    DIVINE    LIFE: 

ITS   ORIGINATION. 

The  grand  characteristics  of  the  process  of  conver- 
sion are  diversity  and  unity.  Dr.  Chalmers  could 
not  say  of  himself  "  that  he  ever  felt  a  state  of  mind 
corresponding  to  John  Bunyan's  Slough  of  Despond." 
Wilberforce,  on  the  other  hand,  speaking  of  the  '^  strong 
convictions  of  guilt"  "which  accompanied  his  conver- 
sion, said  that  "nothing  which  he  had  ever  read  of  in 
the  accounts  of  others  exceeded  what  he  then  felt." 
And  yet  no  two  men  could  exhibit  a  stronger  spiritual 
likeness  than  these.  In  their  convictions  of  personal 
demerit  before  God,  in  their  views  of  the  mediation 
through  which  sin  is  pardoned  and  the  sinner  recon- 
ciled to  his  Maker,  in  their  fihal  love  and  confidence 
towai-ds  their  Father  in  heaven,  and  in  their  practical 
love  to  all  mankind,  they  were  one. 

This  diversity  and  unity  become  the  more  striking 
when  on  the  one  hand  the  spiritual  relationship  of 
Chalmers  and  Wilberforce  is  remembered,  and  on  the 
other  their  constitutional  differences  are  remarked. 
Wilberforce's  "Practical  View"  was  put  into  Chal- 
mers's hand  at  a  time  when  his  soul  was  struggling 
earnestly  but  pharisaically  to  attain  conformity  to  the 
divine  law,  and  was  the  means  of  "  a  great  revolution 
in  all  his  opinions  about  Christianity."  But  not  in 
his  opinions  merely.  "  The  deep  views  which  Mr. 
Wilberforce  gives  of  the  depravity  of  our  nature,  of  our 

109 


110  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

need  of  an  atonement,  of  the  great  doctrine  of  accept- 
ance through  that  atonement,  of  the  sanctifying  in- 
fluences of  the  Spirit, — these  all  (said  Dr.  Chalmers) 
give  a  new  aspect  to  a  man's  religion;  and  I  am  sure 
(he  continues)  that  in  as  far  as  they  arc  really  and 
honestly  proceeded  upon,  they  will  give  a  new  direc- 
tion to  his  habits  and  his  history."  It  was  so  in  his 
own  case.  The  "revolution"  which  he  underwent  left 
him  a  "new man."  And  yet  between  these  illustrious 
men,  spiritual  father  and  son,  there  were  the  widest 
constitutional  differences.  Describing  them  as  he  saw 
them  in  1830,  Joseph  John  Gurney  says  : — 

"  I  have  seldom  observed  a  more  amusing  and 
pleasing  contrast  between  two  great  men  than  between 
Wilberforce  and  Chalmers.  Chalmers  is  stout  and 
erect,  with  a  broad  countenance;  Wilberforce  minute 
and  singularly  twisted.  Chalmers,  both  in  body  and 
in  mind,  moves  with  a  deliberate  step ;  "Wilberforce, 
infirm  as  he  is  in  his  advanced  years,  flies  about  with 
astonishing  activity;  and  while,  with  nimble  finger,  he 
seizes  on  every  thing  that  adorns  or  diversifies  his  path, 
his  mind  flits  from  object  to  object  with  unceasing- 
versatility.  Chalmers  can  say  a  jDleasant  thing  now 
and  then,  and  laugh  when  he  has  said  it;  and  he  has 
a  strong  touch  of  humour  in  his  countenance;  but  in 
general  he  is  grave, — his  thoughts  grow  to  a  great  size 
before  they  are  uttered :  Wilberforce  sparkles  with  life 
and  wit,  and  the  characteristic  of  his  mind  is  'rapid  pro- 
ductiveness.' A  man  might  be  in  Chalmers's  company 
for  an  hour,  especially  in  a  party,  without  knowing  who 
or  what  he  was,  though  in  the  end  he  would  be  sure  to 
be  detected  b}^  some  unexpected  disj^lay  of  powerful 
originality :  Wilberforce,  except  when  fairly  asleep,  is 
never  latent.     Chalmers  knows  how  to  veil  himself  in 


DIVERSITY   AND    UNITY.  Ill 

a  decent  cloud:  "VVilberforce  is  always  in  sunshine; 
seldom,  I  believe,  has  any  mind  been  more  strung  to 
a  perpetual  tune  of  love  and  praise.  Yet  these  per- 
sons, distinguished  as  they  are  from  the  world  at  large, 
and  from  each  other,  present  some  admirable  points  of 
resemblance.  Both  of  them  are  broad  thinkers  and 
liberal  feelers ;  both  of  them  are  arrayed  in  humility, 
meekness,  and  charity;  both  appear  to  hold  self  in 
little  reputation ;  above  all,  both  love  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  and  reverently  acknowledge  him  to  be  their 
only  Saviour." 

The  absence  of  uniformity  in  the  process  of  conver- 
sion, and  the  essential  sameness  of  the  divine  hfe  which 
follows,  have  been  remarked  by  many.  "  It  has  often 
been  a  cause  of  much  distress  to  me,"  said  Dr.  Joseph 
Fletcher,  of  Stepney,  when  a  young  man,  and  in  re- 
ference to  his  early  experience,  "  that  I  could  not 
particularize  the  place,  the  time,  the  means  of  my 
conversion."  But  in  maturer  years  he  remarked,  with 
wise  discrimination,  "In  some  cases,  the  means  by 
which  this  renovation  is  effected  may  be  so  distinctly 
traced  as  to  enable  the  subject  of  it  to  develop  all  the 
process  by  which  he  is  <  turned  from  darkness  to  light;' 
and,  in  such  circumstances,  to  use  the  words  of  Dr. 
Paley,  *a  man  may  as  easily  forget  his  escape  from 
shipwreck,'  as  forget  the  manner,  time,  and  means  of 
his  conversion.  In  other  cases  the  operation  of  various 
causes  may  be  so  complicated,  so  gradual,  so  inter- 
woven with  a  series  of  events  and  influences,  that  a 
distinct  remembrance  and  disclosure  may  be  difficult, 
if  not  impossible.  Still,  in  both  the  origin  of  the 
change  is  divine,  the  medium  of  effecting  it  is  the  same 
holy  truth,  however  diversified  the  manner  and  cir- 
cumstances of  its  communication;  and  the  results  in 


112  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

the  excitement  of  holy  affection,  and  the  working  of 
practical  consequences,  will  prove  that  it  is  'the  same 
Spirit'  whose  power  is  the  source  of  this  new  creation." 

The  diversities  which  are  observed  in  the  process 
of  spiritual  conversion  may  be  illustrated  by  the 
miracles  of  our  Lord. 

The  records  of  these  miracles  are  usually  of  this  cha- 
racter : — "There  came  a  lejDcr  to  him,  beseeching  him, 
and  kneeling  down  to  him,  and  saying  unto  him,  If 
thou  wilt,  thou  canst  make  me  clean.  And  Jesus,  moved 
with  compassion,  put  forth  his  hand,  and  touched  him, 
and  saith  unto  him,  I  will ;  be  thou  clean.  And  as 
Boon  as  he  had  spoken,  immediately  the  leprosy  de- 
parted from  him,  and  he  was  cleansed."*  To  a  para- 
lytic Jesus  said,  "Arise,  and  take  up  thy  bed,  and  go 
thy  way  into  thine  house.  And  immediately  he  arose, 
took  up  the  bed,  and  went  forth  before  them  all."f  To 
the  daughter  of  Jairus,  lying  in  her  shroud,  he  said, 
"Damsel,  I  say  unto  thee,  arise.  And  sti-aightway 
the  damsel  arose  and  walked."  J  And  to  Lazarus,  who 
had  been  dead  four  days,  Jesus  "  cried  with  a  loud  voice, 
Lazarus,  come  forth.  And  he  that  was  dead  came 
forth."§  Shall  we  be  surprised,  then,  if  a  spiritual 
resurrection,  and  the  work  of  spiritual  healing  which 
Jesus  performs,  be  accomplished  in  the  same  manner, 
and  become  apparent  both  to  the  consciousness  of 
those  that  are  cured  and  to  the  observation  of  others 
with  the  rapidity  of  lightning  ? 

In  a  few  instances  the  miracles  of  Christ  were  per- 
formed by  degrees,  or  at  least  the  result  of  them  was 
developed  gradually,  although  even  in  these  cases  it 

*  Mark  i.  40-42.  +  Mark  ii.  11, 12. 

X  Mark  v  41,  42.  ?  John  xi.  43,  44. 


MIRACLES    or    CHRIST.  113 

was  in  a  manner  to  show  the  divinity  of  the  power 
which  wrought  them.  At  Bethsaida,  Jesus  took  a 
blind  man  that  was  brought  to  him,  '<and  led  him  out 
of  the  town;  and  when  he  had  spit  on  his  eyes,  and 
put  his  hands  upon  him,  he  asked  him  if  he  saw  aught. 
And  he  looked  up,  and  said,  I  see  men  as  trees,  walk- 
ing. After  that  he  put  his  hands  again  upon  his  eyes, 
and  made  him  look  up:  and  he  was  restored,  and  saw 
every  man  clearly."*  In  this  case  the  first  operation 
is  not  to  be  regarded  as  a  failui-e :  it  accomplished  all 
that  it  was  designed  to  accomphsh, — a  partial  restora- 
tion. And  the  vision  of  the  man  thus  partially  healed 
resembles  that  of  many  in  the  process  of  conversion : 
they  are  no  longer  blind,  but  see;  they  see  spiritual 
objects,  but  they  do  not  see  them  as  they  are,  but 
through  a  haze  which  produces  distortion  and  con- 
fusion. On  another  occasion  Jesus  made  clay  of 
spittle,  and  anointed  the  ej^es  of  a  man  who  had 
been  born  blind  with  the  clay,  "and  said  unto  him.  Go, 
w^ash  in  the  pool  of  Siloam."  The  man  "went  his  way 
and  washed,  and  came  seeing.''^  In  this  case  the  cure 
was  a  work  of  time  and  of  degrees.  The  radical  change 
in  the  condition  of  the  blind  man's  eyes  was  eflected 
no  doubt  by  the  word  of  Jesus  Christ;  the  waters  of 
Siloam  possessed  no  curative  eflScacy,  but  the  washing 
which  our  Lord  commanded  was  essential  to  the  man's 
enjoyment  of  sight.  The  divine  operation  by  which 
the  spiritual  eye  is  made  to  see  may  be  instantaneous; 
but  the  soul's  conscious  enjoyment  of  vision  may  be  a 
work  of  arduous  progress  and  of  many  degrees. 

The  most  familiar  changes  in  nature  furnish  us  with 

*  Mark  viii.  22-26.  t  John  ix.  6,  7. 


114  THE  DIVINE  LIFE. 

other  analogies  wherewith  to  illustrate  the  diversities 
which  are  seen  in  the  manner  of  the  soul's  conversion 
to  God. 

In  some  latitudes  the  dawn  of  day  is  almost  in- 
stantaneous. The  transition  from  darkness  to  light 
is  clearly  defined.  So  is  it  often  with  the  soul. 
Up  to  a  given  hour  or  day  the  spiritual  darkness  is 
complete,  the  soul  loves  it,  and  endures  all  its  misery 
without  one  prayer  for  light;  when  suddenly,  by  some 
unseen  agency,  which  Holy  Scripture  teaches  us  to 
recognise  as  the  Spirit  of  God,  the  dark  night  passes 
away,  and  the  true  light  shines.  In  other  latitudes  the 
dawn  of  day  is  more  gradual,  and  the  night  is  separated 
from  the  day  by  a  considerable  twilight.  The  first 
rays  that  reach  our  horizon  are  so  faint,  that  even  if 
we  watch  for  them  we  cannot  distinguish  them  or  de- 
termine the  moment  when  they  penetrate  the  darkness. 
And  if  we  continue  to  watch  the  progress  of  sunrise, 
so  gradually  does  the  darkness  disappear  before  the 
approach  of  light,  that  we  cannot  mark  its  departure, 
except  by  the  comparison  of  considerable  intervals. 
The  emergence  of  the  soul  from  sj)iritual  darkness  is 
often  similarly  imperceptible,  and  its  reality  is  to  be 
seen  only  by  the  comparison  of  the  antecedent  night 
with  the  brightness  of  the  day  to  which  it  has  happily 
given  place. 

Again :  the  sun  rises  sometimes  in  a  cloudless 
sky,  and  rejoices  as  a  strong  man  to  run  a  race,  his 
progress  not  only  unimpeded,  but  unobscured  by 
cloud  or  storm.  But  it  is  often  otherwise.  Though 
risen,  it  is  concealed  from  us  by  dark  and  tempestuous 
clouds,  and  pursues  a  course  which  to  mortal  eyes  is 
uncertain,  and  which  bears  the  aspect  of  a  long  and 
doubtful   conflict  between   the   light  of  heaven   and 


ILLUSTRATION    FROM    NATURE.  115 

the  vapours  of  a  turbid  atmosphere.  Even  so  is  it 
with  human  spirits.  One  man  emerges  from  the 
night  of  ignorance  and  sin,  and,  as  it  were,  shakes 
from  him  at  once  all  signs  of  its  darkness,  and  his 
light  shines  more  and  more,  without  fluctuation  or 
binderance,  unto  the  perfect  day.  Another  comes  forth 
from  the  deep  night  of  his  impenitency  and  unbelief 
feebly  and  uncertainly;  now  seems  to  be  "light 
in  the  Lord,"  and  then  seems  covered  by  a  cloud  of 
thick  darkness;  and  not  until  many  days  or  months, 
or  even  years,  of  conflict,  have  been  endured,  does  it 
become  evident,  either  in  his  soul's  experience  or  in 
his  life's  practice,  that  he  has  really  passed  from 
death  unto  life. 

The  diversities  which  characterize  the  spring  of  our 
English  climate  likewise  illustrate  the  variety  which 
distinguishes  the  process  of  conversion.  Our  ideal 
of  spring  is  very  beautiful : — "  The  earlier  dawn  of 
day, — a  certain  cheerful  cast  in  the  light;  even  though 
still  shining  over  an  expanse  of  desolation,  it  has  the 
appearance  of  a  smile;  a  softer  breathing  of  the  air 
at  intervals;  the  bursting  of  the  buds;  the  vivacity 
of  the  animal  tribes;  the  first  flowers  of  the  season; 
and,  by  degrees,  a  delicate,  dubious  tint  of  green. 
It  needs  not  that  a  man  should  be  a  poet,  or  a  senti- 
mental worshipper  of  nature,  to  be  delighted  with  all 
this."  It  is  in  this  gentle  and  gradual  manner  that 
the  divine  life  often  appears,  especially  in  the  young. 
We  see  its  first  indications  in  ''serious  thoughts  and 
emotions,  growing  sensibility  of  conscience,  distaste 
for  vanity  and  folly,  deep  solicitude  for  the  welfare 
of  the  soul,  a  disposition  to  exercises  of  piety,  a  pro- 
gressively clearer,  more  grateful,  and  more  believing 


116  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

apprehension  of  the  necessity  and  sufficiency  of  the 
work  and  sacrifice  of  Christ  for  human  redemption. 
To  a  pious  friend  or  parent  this  is  more  dehghtful 
than  if  he  could  have  a  vision  of  Eden  as  it  bloomed 
on  the  first  day  that  Adam  beheld  it." 

But  the  progress  of  spring  is  not  always  according 
to  our  ideal.  "How  reluctantly  the  worse  (often) 
gives  place  to  the  better !  While  the  winter  is  forced 
to  retire  it  is  yet  very  tenacious  of  its  reign  j  it  seems 
to  hate  the  beauty  and  fertility  that  are  supplanting 
it.  For  months  we  are  liable  to  cold,  chilling,  pes- 
tilential blasts,  and  sometimes  biting  frosts.  A  portion 
of  the  malignant  power  lingers,  or  returns  to  lurk, 
as  it  were,  under  the  most  cheerful  sunshine;  so  that 
the  vegetable  beauty  remains  in  hazard,  and  the 
luxury  of  enjoying  the  spring  is  attended  with  danger 
to  persons  not  in  firm  health.  It  is  too  obvious  to 
need  pointing  out  how  much  resembling  this  there  is 
in  the  moral  state  of  things, — in  the  hopeful  advance 
and  improvement  of  the  youthful  mind,  in  the  early 
and  indeed  more  advanced  stages  of  the  Christian 
character,  and  in  all  the  commencing  improvements 
of  human  society." 


Our  first  illustrations  of  the  process  of  conversion 
will  be  taken  from  the  histories  of  John 
Foster,  Robert  Morrison,  and  William 
Knibb, — the  first,  one  of  the  greatest  of  thinkers,  the 
other  two  among  the  greatest  of  workers  for  God  and 
mankind.  The  experience  of  the  three  was  of  the 
most  common  order. 


JOHN   FOSTER.  117 

The  peculiarities  of  John  Foster's  great  mind, 
desirable  and  undesirable,  were  distinctly  jo^n  Foster; 
marked  while  yet  in  early  youth  he  faj"  sepl'^lv' 
helped  his  father  at  the  loom.  When  ^etonr'^oi 
not  twelve  years  old  he  had  a  painful  i^.is^s. 
sense  of  an  awkward  but  entire  individuality.  Thought- 
ful and  silent,  he  shunned  the  companionship  of  boys 
whose  vivacity  was  merely  physical  and  uninspired  by 
sentiment.  His  constitutional  pensiveness  at  times 
induced  a  recoil  from  human  beings  into  a  cold  interior 
retirement,  where  he  felt  as  if  dissociated  from  the 
whole  creation.  His  imagination  was  imperious  and 
tyrannical,  and  would  often  haunt  him  with  scenes 
which  disturbed  his  nights'  repose.  He  was  full  of 
restless  thoughts,  wishes,  and  passions,  on  subjects 
that  interested  none  of  his  acquaintance. 

"With  much  that  was  uncongenial  and  disadvan- 
tageous in  Foster's  circumstances,  their  moral  and 
religious  influences  were  for  the  most  part  highly 
salutary.  In  his  parents  he  had  constantly  before 
him  examples  of  fervent  piety,  combined  with  great 
sobriety  of  judgment  and  undeviating  integrity.  A 
meeting  was  held  in  their  house  every  Tuesday  even- 
ing, which  was  always  closed  with  a  prayer  by 
Mr.  Foster,  who  never  omitted  one  petition: — "O 
Lord,  bless  the  lads!"  meaning  his  son  John  and  a 
young  companion.  The  earnestness  with  which  these 
words  were  uttered  made  a  deep  impression  on  the 
two  youths.  To  trace  the  progress  of  Foster's  piety 
in  its  earliest  stages,  "mingled,"  as  it  was,  "almost 
insensibly  with  his  feelings,"  would  be  impracticable : 
its  genuineness,  happily,  was  proved  by  its  shining 
more  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day.  When  about 
fourteen  years  old,  he  communicated  to  the  associate 


118  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

just  referred  to  the  poignant  anxiety  he  had  suffered 
from  comparing  his  character  with  the  requirements 
of  the  divine  law,  and  added,  that  he  had  found  rcHef 
only  by  placing  a  simple  reliance  on  the  sacrifice  of 
Jesus  Christ  for  acceptance  before  God. 

This  is  all  that  his  biographer  tells  us  of  John 
Foster's  conversion.  And  for  general  instruction  it 
is  enough.  John  Foster  has  been  happily  described 
as  "a  great  man,  with  many  peculiarities  but  no 
littlenesses."  The  march  of  thought  in  his  writings 
is  felt  to  be  the  tread  of  a  giant.  Especially  im- 
pressible by  all  that  is  grand  and  awful,  he  was  equally 
sensitive  to  all  that  is  tender  and  beautiful.  Moun- 
tains filled  him  with  emotions  of  sublimity  and  ma- 
jesty; flowers  the  most  delicate,  retiring,  and  minute, 
inspii-ed  him  with  delight.  Much  given  to  profound 
and  searching  thought,  and  often  restlessly  desirous 
to  penetrate  the  veil  that  separates  the  seen  from  the 
unseen,  it  is  instructive  to  fi*nd  that  his  pei'sonal 
religious  consciousness  was  of  a  character  common  to 
that  of  the  most  ordinary  minds. 

Evangelical  Christianity  contains — to  use  his  own 
words — "a  humiliating  estimate  of  the  moral  con- 
dition of  man  as  a  being  radically  corrupt;  the  doc- 
trine of  redemption  from  that  condition  by  the 
merit  and  suiferings  of  Christ;  the  doctrine  of  a 
divine  influence  being  necessary  to  transform  the 
character  of  the  human  mind,  in  order  to  prepare  it 
for  a  higher  station  in  the  universe;  and  a  grand 
moral  peculiarity  by  which  it  insists  on  humility, 
penitence,  and  a  separation  from  the  spirit  and  habits 
of  the  world."  These  principles  constituted  no  mere 
creed  or  theory,  but  actuated  John  Foster's  whole 
spiritual  nature.  '<It  seemed  to  him  not  less  prejDOsterous 


ROBERT    MORRISON.  119 

than  impious  to  assume  any  other  posture  than  that 
of  deep  abasement  before  Him  whom  the  heaven  of 
heavens  cannot  contain,  and  in  whose  sight  the  heavens 
are  not  clean."  But  while  he  stood  in  awe  from  con- 
scious sin,  he  did  not  tremble  like  a  slave.  He  found 
peace  and  hope  in  Christ.  ''What  would  become  of  a 
poor  sinful  soul  (he  said,  a  few  days  before  his  death) 
but  for  that  blessed,  all-comprehensive  sacrifice,  and 
that  intercession  at  the  right  hand  of  the  Majesty  on 
high  ?"  Still  nearer  his  last  hour,  and  while  speaking 
of  his  weakness,  he  said,  "But  I  can  pray:  and  that  is 
a  glorious  thing."  "Trust  in  Christ,  trust  in  Christ," 
he  said  to  his  attendant.  And  with  almost  his  dying 
breath,  he  was  overheard  to  repeat  the  song  of 
triumph  : — "  O  death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?  O  grave, 
where  is  thy  victory  ?  Thanks  be  to  God,  which  giveth 
us  the  victory  through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

The  following  is  in  substance  the  account  which 
EoBERT   Morrison   gave  of  himself  in 

^  Dr.  Morrison ; 

1802.     He  had  enjoyed  the  inestimable     bom  at  Morpeth. 

''    -'  Jan.  6. 1782 ;  died 

advantage  of  a  godly  parentage,  and  at  canton.  Aug. 
was  habituated  to  a  constant  and  regu- 
lar attendance  on  the  preaching  of  the  gospel.  His 
father  was  careful  to  maintain  the  worship  of  God  in 
his  family,  and  to  train  his  children  in  the  way  of 
holiness.  When  further  advanced  in  life,  young 
Morrison  received  much  advantage  from  the  public 
catechetical  instructions  of  the  Rev.  John  Hutton. 
By  these  means  his  conscience  was  informed  and 
enlightened,  and  he  was  kept  from  running  to  any 
"excess  of  riot,"  though  as  yet  he  lived  without 
Christ,  without  God,  and  without  hope  in  the  world. 
He  was  a  stranger,  he  testified,  to  the  plague  of  hi& 


120  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

own  heart;  and,  notwithstanding  that  he  often  felt 
remorse  and  the  npbraidings  of  conscience,  yet  he 
flattered  himself  that  somehow  he  should  have  peace, 
though  he  walked  "  in  the  ways  of  his  own  heart." 

When  about  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  age,  he  was 
"much  awakened  to  a  sense  of  sin."  He  could  recall 
no  particular  circumstance  which  led  to  this,  unless  it 
were  that  at  that  time  he  grew  somewhat  loose  and 
profane,  and  was  offcener  than  once  led  into  intoxica- 
tion by  wicked  company.  He  was  startled  by  his  own 
conduct,  and  reflection  led  him  to  serious  concern 
about  his  soul.  The  fear  of  death  compassed  him 
about,  and  he  was  led  to  cry  mightily  to  God,  that  he 
would  pardon  his  sin,  and  that  he  would  renew  him  in 
the  spirit  of  his  mind.  Sin  became  a  burden.  His 
life  and  his  heart  were  now  changed.  He  broke  off 
from  his  wicked  companions,  and  gave  himself  to 
reading,  meditation,  and  prayer.  "  Since  that  time," 
he  wrote,  five  years  after,  "  the  Lord  has  been  gradu- 
ally pleased  to  humble  and  prove  me;  and,  though  I 
have  often  enjoyed  much  peace  and  joy  in  believing,  I 
have  likewise  experienced  much  opposition  from  the 
working  of  indwelling  sin, — 'the  flesh  lusting  against 
the  spirit,  and  the  spirit  against  the  flesh;  and  these 
being  contrary  the  one  to  the  other,  I  could  not  do  the 
things  that  I  would.'  I  have  gradually  discovered 
more  of  the  holiness,  spirituality,  and  extent  of  the 
divine  law,  and  more  of  my  own  vileness  and  unworthi- 
ness  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  the  freencss  and  richness 
of  sovereign  grace.  I  have  sinned  as  I  could :  it  is  '  by 
the  grace  of  God  I  am  what  I  am.' " 

When  Eobert  Morrison  consecrated  his  life  to 
missionary-sei"vice,  it  was  his  prayer  that  God  would 
station  him  in  that  part  of  the  missionary-field  where 


WILLIAM    KNIBB.  121 

the  difficulties  wore  the  greatest,  and  to  all  human 
appearance  the  most  insurmountable.  His  prayer  was 
answered  in  his  appointment  to  China;  and  from  the 
day  of  his  appointment  to  the  day  of  his  death  he  had 
but  one  ruling  object, — the  conversion  of  that  great 
empire  to  Christ.  Every  thing  he  thought,  and  said, 
and  did,  henceforward,  tended  directly  or  indirectly  to 
this  end ;  and  to  this  every  personal  gratification  and 
advantage  was  cheerfully  subordinated.  His  name 
will  throughout  all  time  be  associated  with  one  of  the 
greatest  triumphs  at  once  of  Christian  zeal  and  of 
high  scholarship  in  the  translation  of  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures into  the  Chinese  language,  and  the  preparation 
of  a  Chinese  dictionary.  His  moral  and  spiritual  cha- 
racter harmonized  with  the  rank  which  he  must  ever 
take  among  the  servants  of  Christ  as  the  first  apostle 
of  the  Protestant  church  to  China.  And  in  the  con- 
version of  the  Northumbrian  last-maker's  son  to  God, 
commonplace  as  the  manner  of  it  may  be  said  to  have 
been,  there  was  laid  the  foundation  of  great  personal 
excellence,  and  there  was  opened  a  fountain  of  bless- 
ing to  the  long  estranged  and  benighted  land  of 
Sinim. 

It  was  the  privilege  of  William  Knibb  to  enjoy 
in  childhood  the  care  and  instruction 
of  the  best  of  mothers.  "There  was  bom  at  Ketter- 
that  about  her,"  says  one  who  knew  difd  in  Jamaica! 
her  well,  "which  would  at  once  excite 
love  and  reverence.  Her  piety  was  not  only  above 
the  common  rate,  but  it  was  highly  intelligent  and 
attractive.  She  passed  most  of  her  Hfe  in  most  trying 
circumstances,  under  which  she  uniformly  displayed  a 
magnanimity  and  pious  cheerfulness  that  could  not 


122  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

fail  to  be  observed  and  admired  by  her  children,  even 
at  an  early  age.  With  much  calmness  of  temper  she 
combined  gi-eat  energy  in  all  her  undertakings;  and 
there  was  a  strength  of  intellect,  a  breadth  and  depth 
in  her  views  on  all  subjects,  religious  and  others,  and 
a  certain  mild  eloquence  and  felicity  of  language  and 
benignity  of  manner,  which  at  the  same  time  inspired 
respect  for  her  understanding  and  affection  to  her 
person." 

It  would  be  strange  if  the  children  of  such  a  mother 
were  not  the  subjects  of  religious  impressions  from 
their  childhood.  But  it  was  not  till  WilHam  Knibb 
was  a  yoiith  of  eighteen  or  nineteen  that  these 
impressions  ripened  into  decision.  The  Sunday- 
school  connected  with  the  Baptist  church  at  Broad- 
mead,  Bristol,  in  which  he  was  not  a  scholar  but  a 
junior  teacher,  was  always  regarded  by  him  as  the 
birthplace  of  his  soul.  And  the  account  which  his 
own  words  contain  of  his  transition  from  darkness  to 
light  may  be  regarded  as  the  reflection  of  the  ex- 
perience of  thousands  who  have  been  placed  in  similar 
circumstances  : — 

"Having  enjoyed  the  unspeakable  advantages  of  a 
religious  education,  and  of  being  trained  under  the 
care  of  a  pious  and  affectionate  mother,  I  was  early 
taught  my  state  as  a  sinner,  and  the  necessity  of  flying 
to  Jesus  Christ  as  the  only  hope  of  escape  from  that 
punishment  which  my  sins  had  deserved,  and  I  was  at 
an  early  age  subject  to  many  convictions;  and  though 
separated  from  under  the  immediate  care  of  my 
parents  at  a  very  early  age,  yet  the  pious  letters  which 
I  received  from  my  mother  from  time  to  time, 
together  with  being  placed  in  a  serious  family,  were 
continual  restraints  upon  my  conduct,  and  tended 


knibb's  conversion.  123 

continually  to  I'evive  those  convictions  which  I  had 
received  under  the  parental  roof.  Under  these 
convictions  the  state  of  my  mind  was  various.  Often 
did  I  treat  them  as  intruders  upon  my  peace  and  com- 
fort, and  foolishly  envied  the  condition  of  those  of  my 
associates  who,  as  I  thought,  could  continue  in  their 
sins  without  being  so  often  disturbed  by  those  cutting 
reflections  which  I  so  frequently  felt.  At  other  times 
I  endeavoured  to  lull  my  conscience  asleep,  under  the 
delusion  that  I  was  willing  to  return  to  God  if  he 
would  be  pleased  to  change  my  heart,  and  that  there- 
fore it  was  not  my  fault.  I  impiously  dared  to  charge 
it  on  my  Maker.  And  not  unfrequently  did  I  make 
many  resolutions  of  amendment,  and  many  promises 
that,  if  the  Lord  would  be  pleased  to  pardon  my  sins, 
I  would  devote  m}^  future  life  to  his  service,  and 
attend  to  those  things  which  concerned  my  everlasting 
welfare.  But  these  resolutions  and  promises  were, 
formed  in  my  own  strength,  and  I  soon  found,  by  sad 
experience,  that  they  were  of  no  avail  in  the  hour  of 
temptation;  for  no  sooner  did  Satan  present  his 
allurements  than  I  fell  an  easy  prey  to  them,  and 
returned  to  my  old  courses  with  as  great  an  eager- 
ness as  ever.  Indeed,  under  these  convictions,  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  it  was  not  sin  as  committed 
against  a  holy,  just,  and  good  God  that  affected  me, 
so  much  as  the  consequences  which  I  knew  would 
inevitably  result  from  continuing  in  it.  I  did  not 
wish  to  be  saved  from  my  sins,  but  in  them;  and 
if  I  could  have  continued  in  sin  and  escaped  the 
consequences,  I  am  afraid  that  1  should  still  have  been 
willing  to  have  rolled  it  as  a  sweet  morsel  under  my 
tongue."  Those  who  know  what  true  conviction  of 
sin  is,  wnll  not  infer  from  these  self-criminations  that 


121:  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

William  Knibb  was  a  youth  of  immoral  life.  On  the 
contrary,  he  was  virtuous  and  upright.  But  he  writes 
in  the  light  of  that  law  which  requires  inward  purity 
and  godliness.  The  narrative  of  his  conversion  pro- 
ceeds thus : — 

"  A  httle  less  than  a  year  ago  (in  1821)  I  was  invited 
to  take  one  of  the  junior  classes  in  the  Broadmead 
Sunday-school.  Before  I  had  continued  any  length 
of  time  in  the  school,  the  thought  struck  my  mind 
that  I  could  not  properly  discharge  the  duties  of  my 
office  if  I  did  not  devote  a  portion  of  my  time  to 
preparation  for  religious  instruction.  When  I  made 
the  trial,  such  thoughts  as  these  entered  my  mind, 
and  almost  induced  me  to  abandon  the  attempt : — • 
Have  you  attended  to  these  things  which  you  recom- 
mend to  the  children?  You  tell  them  they  are  of 
infinite  importance :  but  do  you  really  value  them  ? 
If  not,  are  you  not,  while  instructing  them,  pro- 
nouncing your  own  condemnation  ?  And  how  can  you 
expect  any  blessing  to  result  from  your  instruction  ? 
Some  time  after  this,  a  most  earnest  and  aifectionate 
address,  which  was  delivered  to  the  children  by  the 
superintendent,  from  the  character  of  young  Abijah, 
under  the  divine  blessing,  made  a  deep,  and,  I  trust, 
lasting,  impression  on  my  mind,  and  I  hope  that  I  was 
enabled  to  cast  myself  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  as  a 
perishing  sinner,  pleading  for  mercy  for  the  alone  sake 
of  Jesus  Christ." 

Young  Knibb  was  now  on  the  Lord's  side,  resting 
in  the  peace  and  hope  of  the  gospel,  and  filled  with 
zeal  to  make  others  partakers  of  the  same  blessings. 
Within  two  years  and  a  half  from  this  period  he  was 
appointed  to  missionary-service  in  the  West  Indies. 
And  there,  after  twenty-three  years  of  faithful  labour 


GRADUAL   CONVERSIONS.  125 

and  successful  conflict,  he  was  called  away  from  earthly 
toil  in  November,  1845,  not  building  his  hopes  of 
heaven  on  what  he  had  done,  but  on  what  Christ  had 
done  for  him.  ''I  am  not  afraid  to  die,"  he  said;  "the 
blood  of  Christ  cleanseth  from  all  sin,  both  of  omission 
and  commission;  and  that  blood  is  my  only  trust." 

The  commonness,  if  the  expression  may  be  used^.  of 
Knibb's  early  experience,  and  the  commonness  of  the 
elements  of  his  character,  renders  his  example  all  the 
more  useful.  "He  was  not  a  man  of  original  genius," 
says  his  biographer.  "He  was  not  a,  man  of  lofty 
intellect.  He  was  not  a  man  of  literary  taste.  He 
was  not  a  man  of  finished  education.  He  was  not  a 
man  of  scientific  attainments.  He  was  not  a  meta- 
physician, not  a  poet,  not  even  a  theologian 

He  was  kind,  just,  firm,  active,  and  fearless.  He  had 
good  sense,  strong  nerves,  simple  speech,  a  warm  heart, 
and  lively  piety.  What  commonplace  qualities  are 
these!     Yet  they  made  an  extraordinary  man." 


"The  light ^nd  insinuations  of  the  Divine  Spirit," 
to  use  the  words  of  Robert  Hall,  "so 
often  accompany  the  conduct  of  a  strictly 
religious  education,  that  some  of  the  most  emi- 
nent Christians  have  acknowledged  themselves  at 
a  loss  to  assign  the  precise  era  of  their  conversion." 
Instances  of  this  order  are  found  in  every  condition 
of  life,  and  in  every  variety  of  mental  character.  We 
shall  use  for  illustration  the  histories  of  Bengel  the 
Student,  Blackader  the  Soldier,  Joseph  John  Gurney 
the  Philanthropist,  Joseph  Fletcher  the  Preacher,  and 
Mi's.  Gi-aham,  a  woman  of  gentle  and  tender  spirit. 

It  has  been  maintained,  and  perhaps  correctly,  that 


126  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

in  all  cases  regeneration  is  instantaneous;  that  the 
impartation  of  spiritual  life  to  the  soul  by  the  Holy 
Spirit  is  effected  at  once;  that  the  ''stony  heart"  is 
not  softened  by  degrees  into  flesh,  but  by  one  decisive 
effort  removed,  and  a  heart  of  flesh  substituted  in  its 
room.  And  the  fact  that  the  consciousness  of  the 
spiritual  life  within  a  man's  soul,  and  its  development 
before  the  observation  of  others,  is  not  always  instan- 
taneous, has  been  exi^lained  thus: — "Conceive  of  a 
man  sitting  in  a  dungeon,  so  occupied  in  thought  as 
not  to  notice  the  change  gradually  produced  by  a  light 
approaching  at  a  distance.  Turning  his  eye  at  length 
he  discerns  objects,  and  perceives  that  there  is  a  light 
in  the  room;  but  when  it  began  to  enter  he  cannot 
tell;  yet  there  was  a  moment  when  the  first  ray 
passed  the  window."  Be  the  truth  on  this  point 
what  it  may,  the  conscious  turning  of  the  heart  to  God 
is  often  not  the  work  of  a  moment,  but  of  years,  and 
is  to  be  compared,  not  to  the  rapidity  of  the  lightning- 
flash,  but  to  the  silent  and  imperceptible  dawn  of  a 
sj)ring  morning. 

Of  those  who  have  been  partakers  of  the  divine  life 
Bengei-  born  ^'O^i^i  childhood,  and  in  whom  it  has 
1687;  died  1752.  gecmed  to  grow  with  their  growth,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  a  more  illustrious  example 
than  that  of  Albert  Bengel,  the  German  commen- 
tator. We  prefiice  his  history  by  words  of  his  own, 
which  will  show  that  his  views  of  human  nature,  and 
of  the  great  change  which  it  needs,  were  not  super- 
ficial and  inadequate.  "What  is  conversion,  and  what 
properly  belongs  to  it?  It  is  the  turning  and  sub- 
mission of  the  soul,  hitherto  sunk  in  self-ignorance, 
self-love,  and   idolatry  to  the  creature,  consequently 


ALBERT   BENGEL.  127 

something  hitherto  alienated  from  God;  it  is  the 
returning  and  submission  of  such  a  soul  to  him,  and 
to  his  good  and  holy  will,  for  the  sake  of  his  honour 
and  glory,  and  for  the  sake  of  its  own  health  and 
salvation."  ''May  a  fixed  time  ever  be  referred  to  as 
the  commencement  of  true  conversion?  Yes;  when 
a  state  of  open  sin  has  been  exchanged  for  decided 
obedience  to  the  grace  of  Christ,  the  very  day  of  such 
a  change,  or  even  the  hour,  or  perhaps  moment,  may  be 
referred  to.  But  when  the  transition  has  proceeded 
by  slow  degrees,  and  many  false  st^ps  and  backslidings 
have  intervened,  a  person  finds  it  very  difficult  with 
respect  to  himself,  and  still  more  difficult  with  respect 
to  others,  to  point  out  the  time  when  evil  or  good 
gained  the  ascendant."  Then,  in  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion, "How  may  we  most  scripturally  express  our- 
selves upon  our  own  state  of  grace?"  he  replied,  "All 
that  we  can  possibly  utter  upon  this  subject  is  con- 
tained in  one  sentence  of  St.  Paul: — 'Nevertheless,  I 
obtained  mercy;'  or,  'The  Lord  hath  called  me  out  of 
darkness  into  marvellous  light;'  or,  'Though  such  and 
such  was  I,  yet  I  am  washed,  I  am  sanctified,  I  am 
justified  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus^  and  by  the 
Spirit  of  our  God.' " 

Albert  Bengel  said  of  himself,  that  "in  his  childhood 
he  experienced  grace  a  hundredfold  more  than  suffi- 
cient to  have  destroyed  the  very  life  of  sin  within 
him."  This  was  not  the  language  of  spiritual  pride, 
but  of  humble  and  adoring  gratitude.  He  appears 
to  have  been  baptized  of  the  Holy  Ghost  from  infancy, 
and  to  have  possessed  the  devout  consciousness  of 
being  a  child  of  God  from  the  first  dawning  of  reason. 
"In  his  earliest  years  he  had  many  clear,  pure,  tender 
feelings  and  stirrings  in  his  heart  concerning  God; 


128  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

and  the  texts  inscribed  on  tlie  cliurcli-walls  of  liis 
native  town,  from  the  Epistle  to  the  Eomans,  concern- 
ing sin,  righteousness,  the  crucifixion,  and  other  sub- 
jects, produced  in  him  as  a  mere  child  emotions  of 
great  joy  and  peace."  "With  childlike  simplicity  he 
followed  his  heavenly  Father's  guidance,  and  submitted 
to  God's  inward  and  outward  disciiiline;  and,  though 
he  did  not  yet  fully  understand  what  a  high  and  rare 
privilege  he  enjoyed,  the  power  of  the  divine  word 
took  such  possession  of  his  heart,  that  he  had  confi- 
dence in  God  like  that  of  a  little  child  in  its  parent; 
took  great  delight  in  prayer,  longed  for  the  better  life 
to  come,  loved  the  Scriptures,  enjoyed  the  church 
hymns  and  the  simplest  books  of  devotion,  had  a 
tender  conscience,  dreaded  doing  wrong,  and  showed 
complacency  in  every  thing  that  was  excellent." 

This  truly  Christian  child  enjoyed  a  large  share  of 
the  love  of  his  school-fellows  and  of  older  persons.  For 
a  time  his  piety  grew  "like  the  grass,  that  tarrieth 
not  for  man,"  eluding  observation,  but  continually  ad- 
vancing under  the  blessing  of  God.  As  he  grew  up 
into  boyhood,  he  was  no  stranger  to  the  stirrings  of  our 
common  corruption.  Speaking  of  blasphemous  and 
bad  thoughts,  he  said,  in  after-life,  "Oh,  how  many 
such  darts  have  heretofore  gone  through  my  soul! 
They  have  occasioned  me  such  distress  and  dejection 
in  my  younger  days,  as  quite  to  alter  my  manner  of 
behaviour  to  others,  and  I  knew  not  how  to  prevent 
it."  The  distress  which  he  thus  suffered  was  evidence 
of  the  repugnance  of  his  heart  to  these  evil  intruders. 
Sudden  and  injurious  suggestions,  and  sallies  of 
thoughtless,  foolish  levity,  assailed  him  likewise;  but 
he  was  preserved  from  their  power  without  losing  the 
character  of  a  boy  and  becoming  a  recluse.     At  the 


bengel's  youth.  129 

same  time,  the  veiy  early  and  gradual  character  of  his 
Christian  experience  was  itself  the  occasion  of  certain 
difficulties  which  only  increased  knowledge  could  re- 
move. Speaking  of  the  seven  psalms  which  are  called 
penitential,  and  which  young  persons  at  school  were 
specially  taught  to  commit  to  memory,  he  says,  "Such 
passages  occasioned  me  much  perplexity  in  m}^  younger 
days;  for,  wishing  to  measure  myself  by  the  measure 
I  found  in  these  psalms,  I  endeavoured  to  realize  the 
same  strong  experience,  and  could  not." 

In  youth  he  endured  temptation  and  trials  of 
another  order,  more  severe  and  perilous.  These  came 
from  the  study  of  philosophy.  "My  will  was  com- 
pliant," he  says,  "but  many  a  doubt  assailed  my 
understanding."  Too  timid  to  communicate  his  diffi- 
culties to  any  one,  he  brooded  over  them  in  secret, 
and  disquieted  himself  in  vain.  But  at  the  very  time 
he  was  thus  suffering,  the  goodness  of  God  afforded, 
him,  he  tells  us,  such  affecting  discoveries,  and  such 
experiences  of  inward  peace,  that  he  felt  encouraged 
to  persevere  in  childlike  prayer.  His  spiritual  con- 
dition at  this  time  is  easil}''  understood.  His  affections 
found  their  enjoyment  and  repose  in  the  gospel  of 
Christ,  but  his  reason  put  in  its  claim,  right  or  wrong, 
to  demonstration  and  certainty  upon  truths  which  had 
already  taken  possession  of  his  heart.  "A  raw,  un- 
converted man,"  he  said  afterwards,  "living  after 
the  course  and  fashion  of  this  world,  and  therefore 
indifferent  to  the  truth  altogether,  meets  with  no 
difficulty  in  subscribing  to  any  form  of  doctrine.  He 
takes  a  thing  for  granted,  just  as  he  finds  it,  and 
cares  not  for  the  trouble  of  proof.  But  a  really 
converted  man  feels  truth  to  be  a  precious  thing;  is 
disposed  to  inquiry  after  it,  preserves  it  when  found, ' 
9 


180  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

and  handles  it  as  he  would  an  invaluable  jewel, — witk 
great  care  and  circumspection.  Finding  it  impossible 
to  go  on  in  a  careless,  trifling  spirit,  he  is  obliged  to 
prove  all  things,  whatever  trouble  it  may  give  him. 
ISow,  as  truth  upon  every  point  is  not  attainable 
without  many  a  hard  struggle,  his  progress  is  often 
very  slow."  But  it  was  well  for  Bengel  that  "his 
heart  was  established  with  grace."  "While  earnestness, 
operating  as  he  describes,  may  be  the  occasion  of 
error,  indifference  is  usually  its  cause  and  parent. 
And  young  Bengel  grew  up  into  an  enlightened  and 
steadfast  faith  in  the  doctrine  of  the  cross  and  all 
the  truths  which  cluster  around  it.  His  life  was  one 
great  exposition  of  their  power.  And  in  death  they 
lighted  his  spirit  through  the  dark  valley. 

The    name   of   Colonel    Blackader   is    associated 
Col. Biaekader;     with  mcmories  of  militaiy  courage  and 
iTesJ^.^'sZ:    Christian    piety.      The    father   of   this 
stlrung'.Aug'fsi!    good  and  brave  man  was  a  minister  of 
"'^^^  the   Church   of   Scotland   in    dark    and 

troublous  times.  He  was  the  fellow-labourer  of  Welsh, 
Peden,  Cargill,  and  other  undaunted  Covenanters,  who 
maintained  the  rights  and  the  freedom  of  their  national 
worship  in  the  face  of  peril  and  sword.  In  1674,  he 
was  proclaimed  rebel  and  fugitive,  and  a  premium  of 
a  thousand  marks  was  offered  to  any  that  should  kill 
or  apprehend  him.  But  a  good  Providence  preserved 
him  from  the  violence  of  barbarous  edicts.  On  his 
return  from  Holland,  where  he  spent  a  short  time 
after  the  defeat  of  Bothwell  Bridge,  he  was  appre- 
hended at  Edinburgh,  in  his  own  house,  and  sent  a 
prisoner  to  the  Bass  Eock.  In  this  bleak  and  solitary 
isle  he  lingered  several  years  in  rigorous  captivity, 


COLONEL   BLACKADER.  131 

till  the  harshness  of  his  treatment  and  the  ungenial 
air  of  the  place  terminated  his  days  in  1685. 

In  the  midst  of  confusion  and  distraction,  this 
worthy  man  had  carefully  trained  his  family  for  God. 
And  he  had  his  reward.  In  his  son,  John,  "we  have 
not  an  examj^le  which  we  sometimes  find  in  the 
histories  of  good  men,  of  the  snbduing  power  of  re- 
generating grace  over  a  reprobate  and  unrenewed 
heart, — of  the  mysterious  efiicacy  with  which  it 
operates  in  awakening  and  transforming  sinners,  to  all 
appearance  irrecoverably  lost,  who,  after  having  given 
in  to  every  lawless  excess,  have  been  suddenly  re- 
covered, as  by  miracle,  from  the  most  daring  profanity 
or  the  grossest  licentiousness."  The  heart  of  John 
Blackader  was  impressed  with  religion  from  his  in- 
fancy. At  twelve  years  of  age  he  was  admitted  a 
communicant  to  the  Lord's  Supper.  He  frequently 
attended  conventicles  and  communions,  which  were 
celebrated  in  the  open  fields,  and  which  had  begun, 
about  1677,  to  attract  immense  crowds  of  hearers  from 
all  parts  of  the  country.  In  the  Diary  of  later  years, 
he  speaks  with  rapture  of  those  quickening  and  re- 
freshing ordinances,  and  complains  that  he  felt  not  on 
Sabbaths,  in  the  army  abroad,  the  same  ardent  desires 
and  tender  meltings  of  soul  that  he  used  to  have  in 
Scotland.  Amidst  the  confusion  of  battles  and  the 
licentiousness  of  camps,  he  reverts,  with  a  mixture  of 
delight  and  regret,  to  the  days  of  old,  when  he  went 
with  the  multitude  that  kept  solemn  fast  and  took 
sweet  counsel  together. 

Blackader's  piety,  though  early,  proved  uniform  and 
abiding.  He  went  steadily  forward  in  the  paths  of 
righteousness,  without  straying  from  his  course, — 
his  life  advancing  to  perfect  day  like  the  morning 


132  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

light,  and  shining  to  the  last  with  increasing  bright- 
ness. It  was  his  haj^piness  to  maintain  his  integrity 
and  his  godly  simplicity  in  a  station  replete  with 
dangers  and  temptations,  and  where  exemption  from 
flagrant  vice  may  be  regarded  as  virtue  of  rare  and 
difficult  attainment. 

As  in  the  case  of  Bengel,  there  is  abundant  evidence 
that  the  piety  of  Blackader,  which  grew  silently  and 
without  observation,  like  the  grass  of  the  field,  was  not 
of  a  superficial  character.  In  his  views  of  doctrinal 
truth  he  distinctly  recognised  the  corruption  of  our 
nature,  the  atonement  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  as  the 
only  ground  of  the  sinner's  hope  before  God,  and  the 
inworking  of  the  Holy  Spirit  as  the  only  source  of 
spiritual  good  in  man.  And  in  every  page  of  his  Diary 
there  is  evidence  of  those  spiritual  conflicts,  and  con- 
solations, and  longings,  wdiich  are  experienced  by 
those  whose  conversion  to  God  is  more  marked,  both 
in  the  consciousness  of  the  Christian  himself,  and  in 
the  outward  changes  with  which  it  is  accompanied. 

It  will  excite  surprise  that  a  youth  like  John 
Blackader  should  have  embraced  a  military  life.  But 
this  may  have  been  from  necessity  rather  than  from 
choice.  And,  so  far  as  it  was  of  choice,  the  circum- 
stances of  the  times  may  account  for  it.  The  revolu- 
tion of  1688  was  achieved,  but  not  yet  completed. 
The  country,  emerging  from  oppression,  made  an 
appeal  to  the  patriotism  of  every  citizen  to  take  arms 
in  the  common  cause, — an  appeal  which  must  have 
been  doubly  enforced  by  the  remembrance  of  past 
injuries  and  the  hope  of  a  glorious  deliverance.  To 
such  considerations  the  history  of  his  family  sufterings 
would  render  young  Blackader  tenderly  sensitive. 
And  a  sense  of  duty,  at  such  a  juncture,  might  over- 


JOSEPH   JOHN   GURNEY.  133 

come  the  scrupulous  reluctance  with  which  his  Chris- 
tian heart  must  have  contemplated  scenes  of  war  and 
bloodshed. 

The  name  of  Joseph  John  Gurney  stands  side  by 
side  with  that  of  his  honoured  sister, 

Joseph    John 

JVIrs.  Elizabeth  Fry,  amono;  the  greatest     ourney ;  born  at 

n     1   .  All-  Earlham      Hall. 

philanthropists   oi    his    age.     And    his     ivss;   died    lu 
philanthropy  was  not  the  fruit  of  mere 
humanity,  but  of  the  divine  life  that  was  in  him. 

His  mother  is  described  as  a  woman  "of  very 
superior  mind  as  well  as  personal  charms,  who  in  her 
latter  years  became  a  serious  Christian  and  a  decided 
Friend."  "When  removed  by  death,  the  maternal 
mantle  fell  upon  the  eldest  sister,  who,  though  scarcely 
seventeen  years  of  age,  ripened  with  an  early  maturity 
which  admirably  fitted  her  for  the  necessities  of  the 
occasion.  The  father  was  a  generous,  ardent,  and 
warm-hearted  man,  with  an  acute  intellect  and  exten- 
sive information. 

On  the  state  of  mind  and  feeling  which  prevailed  in 
this  young  and  interesting  family  after  the  death  of 
their  mother,  the  biographer  of  Joseph  John  says,  that 
the  naturall}^  grave  and  practical  disposition  of  their 
elder  sister  Catharine  hardly  formed  an  exception  to 
the  general  liveliness  and  gayety  which  pervaded  the 
circle,  and  which  rendered  the  members  of  it  pecu- 
liarly liable  to  be  led  away  by  the  various  temptations 
to  which  they  were  exposed.  Their  earlier  years 
were,  in  fact,  distinguished  by  much  which  they 
afterwards  felt  to  have  partaken  largely  of  the  vanity 
of  youth,  but  which  was  yet  singularly  mingled  with 
not  a  little  of  an  opposite  character.     The  evening 

the 


134  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

excitement  of  the  youthful  day-dream,  gave  place,  in 
their  turns,  to  daj^s  of  industiy  and  study,  to  concern 
for  the  poor,  and  at  times  to  religious  seriousness. 
The  contrast  was  striking,  and  not  without  promise. 

Joseph  John  was  the  tenth  child  in  this  family  in 
the  order  of  age,  and  is  described  by  his  sisters  as 
full  of  tender  feeling,  of  love  and  gentleness,  and 
possessing  a  temper  that  nothing  could  irritate  or 
render  fretful.  He  was  studious  and  fond  of  reading, 
and  whether  at  home  or  at  school  he  maintained  the 
character  of  a  boy  of  unsullied  conduct,  of  fine  disposi- 
tion  and  excellent  talents. 

Speaking  of  the  year  1806,  when  Joseph  John 
Gurney  was  in  his  eighteenth  year,  his  biographer 
says,  "  Happy  in  his  family  circle,  the  world  around 
seemed  to  him  to  partake  of  its  loveliness.  His  fondness 
for  music  and  dancing  gave  an  additional  fascination 
to  some  of  the  more  sj)eciou8  allurements  of  jjleasure; 
and  whilst  the  duties  of  business  were  not  neglected, 
and  his  studies  were  jiursued  with  unremitting  eager- 
ness, he  became  at  this  period  a  frequent  visitor  at 
balls  and  other  similar  entertainments,  where  his  en- 
gaging manners  and  person,  and  varied  accomplish- 
ments, rendered  him  an  object  of  general  attraction. 
It  is  plain,  however,  from  his  private  memoranda, 
that  divine  grace  was  through  all  secretly  working  in 
his  heart." 

Of  his  own  spiritual  progress  his  autobiography 
contains  the  following  account : — "I  was  by  no  means 
insensible,  in  very  early  life,  to  religious  considera- 
tions; being  no  stranger,  from  the  first  opening  of  my 
mental  faculties,  to  those  precious  visitations  of  divine 
love  which  often  draw  the  young  mind  to  its  Creator 
and  melt  it  into  tenderness.     If  religion  has  indeed 


PIETY  OF  GRADUAL  GROWTH.  135 

grown  in  me,  (as  I  humbly  believe  it  has,  though 
amidst  innumerable  backslidings,)  it  has  pretty  much 
kept  pace  with  the  growth  of  my  natural  faculties;  for 
I  cannot  now  recall  any  decided  turning-point  in  this 
matter,  except  that  which  afterwards  brought  me  to 
plain  '  Quakerism.'  Cases  of  this  description  are,  in 
my  opinion,  in  no  degree  at  variance  with  the  cardinal 
Christian  doctrine  of  conversion,  and  of  the  new  birth 
unto  righteousness.  The  work  which  effects  the  vital 
change  from  a  state  of  nature  to  a  state  of  grace  is 
doubtless  often  begun  in  very  early  childhood, — nay, 
it  may  open  on  the  soul  with  the  earliest  opening  of 
its  rational  faculties;  and  that  its  progress  may  some- 
times be  so  gradual  as  to  preclude  our  perceiving  any 
very  distinct  steps  in  it,  we  may  learn  from  our  blessed 
Lord's  parable : — '  So  is  the  kingdom  of  God,  as  if  a 
man  should  cast  seed  into  the  ground,  and  should  sleep 
and  rise,  night  and  day,  and  the  seed  should  spring 
and  grow  up,  he  know^eth  not  how.  For  the  earth 
bringeth  forth  fruit  of  herself;  first  the  blade,  then  the 
ear,  after  that  the  full  corn  in  the  ear.'  I  have  no 
doubt  that  some  seed  was  sown  in  my  heart  when  I 
was  little  more  than  an  infant,  through  the  agency  of 
my  watchful  mother;  and  afterwards  that  seed  was 
sedulously  watched  and  cultivated  by  my  dearest 
sister  Catharine.  Yet  I  believe  that  much  of  the 
feeling  into  which  my  young  mind  was  at  times 
brought,  on  the  subject  of  religion,  was  the  simple 
result  of  those  gracious  visitations  which  are  inde- 
pendent of  all  human  agency,  and  like  the  wind  which 
'  bloweth  where  it  listeth.'  " 

We  have  said  that  the  philanthropic  labours  of 
Joseph  John  Gurney  were  the  fruit  of  the  divine  life 
within  him.     He  was  not  impelled  to  them   by  the 


136  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

mere  tenderness  of  humanity,  noi*  hj  the  hope  of  thus 
working  out  his  own  salvation.  No  one  could  have 
clearer  views  of  "the  contrast  between  legal  and 
gospel  obedience."  In  1833  he  thus  wrote  to  a  young 
friend : — "When  we  call  to  mind  that  we  are  by  nature 
corrupt  and  sinful,  and  have  actually  sinned  (alas,  how 
much  and  how  often !)  in  thought,  word,  and  deed,  our 
hearts  ought  to  overflow  with  gratitude  to  Him  who 
hath  redeemed  us  with  his  precious  blood.  Under 
this  feeling  of  gratitude  to  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and 
of  ardent  love  for  God,  we  shall  be  constrained,  by  the 
most  heart-cheering  of  motives,  to  take  up  our  daily 
cross,  to  walk  in  the  paths  of  Christian  self-denial, 
and  to  'follow  the  Lamb  whithersoever  he  goeth.' 

Our  motive,  then,  is  love,  and  the  effect  is  obedience 

The  law  of  God  is  emphatically  called  the  'law  of 
liberty;'  for  while  it  binds  down  every  unruly  passion, 
and  leads  into  true  '  simplicity  and  godly  sincerity  in 
all  things,'  it  encourages  a  noble  freedom  of  action  in 
the  service  of  our  Lord.  The  spirit  of  Christ  within 
us  is  a  '  spirit  of  power,  of  love,  and  of  a  sound 
mind.'  " 

In  the  same  year  we  find  Joseph  John  Gurney 
giving  an  account  of  a  visit  to  an  aged  patriarch  in 
the  Society  of  Friends,  and  of  an  address  in  which 
this  patriarch  called  on  his  children  to  "press  after 
the  salvation  of  their  immortal  souls,  and  recommended 
to  them  their  various  social  and.  religious  duties." 
"  One  thing,  howevei',  above  all  others,"  he  says, 
"  struck  me  in  this  address.  It  was  the  clear  and  oft- 
repeated  declaration  of  this  servant  of  Christ  that  he 
had  no  trust  whatever  in  his  own  righteousness,  but 
that  all  his  confidence  was  in  the  Lord,  all  his  hopes 
of  future   happiness   in   the  availing   mediation  and 


JOSEPH    FLETCHER.  137 

l^orfect  righteousness  of  the  Eedeemer  of  men.  Ilis 
address,  like  the  letters  of  Paul,  was  full  of  '  Jesus 
Christ  and  him  crucified.'  All  boasting  was  excluded. 
Deep  humiliation  was  the  distinguishing  mark  of  every 
passing  sentence.  Mere}",  mercy,  was  the  theme;  and 
God  in  Christ  was  exalted  over  all.  Thus,  out  of  the 
mouth  of  two  experienced  witnesses  [the  other,  his 
d^'ing  mother-in-law]  has  the  gospel  of  life  and  salva- 
tion been  confessed  and  confirmed  in  our  hearing;  and 
in  both  cases  has  the  eye  as  well  as  the  ear  perceived 
its  delightful  efiicacy,  its  gladdening,  quickening  in- 
fluence. "What,  indeed,  can  be  more  lovely  than  the 
spectacle  of  advancing  age  softened,  and  ripened,  and 
mellowed  into  sweetness  under  the  sunshine  of  genuine 
Christianity?" 

From  his  childhood,  Joseph  Fletcher  was  trained 
up  in  the  nurture  and  admonition  of  u^.  Joseph 
the  Lord,  and  the  instruction  of  his  ^l%fZlr.Tec. 
parents,  enforced  by  their  uniformly  llepney.  June  s! 
consistent  example,  laid  the  foundation  ^^^^• 
of  his  piety.  In  the  tenth  year  of  his  age  he  was 
the  subject  of  strong  religious  impressions  under  the 
preaching  of  the  word.  And  other  circumstances  con- 
tributed to  render  them  deep  and  permanent.  "At  a 
very  early  age,"  he  says,  "  serious  impressions  were 
made  upon  my  mind,  which  were  particularly  effected 
by  the  reading  of  Janeway's  <  Token  for  Children.' 
The  author's  very  pathetic  address  in  the  preface  of 
that  work  tended  much  to  convince  me  of  the  import- 
ance and  necessity  of  religion.  This  address  was 
often  read  and  pi'ayed  over  with  considerable  interest 
and  delight.  But  levity  and  folly,  the  usual  charac- 
teristics of  childhood,  succeeded  these  first  impressions. 


138  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

I  cannot  recollect  any  particular  circumstance  till  my 
eleventh  or  twelfth  year,  when  convictions  which  had 
been  forgotten  were  revived  and  deepened.  It  has 
often  been  the  cause  of  much  distress  that  I  could  not 
particularize  the  place,  the  time,  the  means  of  my  con- 
version. The  Lord's  work  was  gradually  effected:  I 
cannot  better  describe  it  at  its  commencement  than 
by  the  words  of  the  blind  man  in  the  gospel,  who  at 
first  only  saw  'men  as  trees,  walking.'  As  I  was  con- 
stantly in  the  way  of  learning  something,  having  from 
my  earliest  years  a  predilection  for  reading,  and  being 
furnished  with  the  necessary  means  of  instruction,  I 
did,  indeed,  acquire  a  theoretical  knowledge  of  some 
of  the  distinguishing  doctrines  of  the  gospel.  But,  I 
fear,  that  knowledge  was  merely  speculative.  I  saw 
not  so  much  of  the  evil  of  sin,  nor  of  the  beauty  and 
inestimable  worth  of  the  Friend  of  sinners,  as  after- 
wards. Though  orthodox  in  my  notions  of  some 
things,  my  dependence  was  centred  in  myself  But 
by  a  constant  attendance  on  the  means  of  grace,  the 
Lord  was  graciously  pleased  to  remove  the  veil  of 
spiritual  ignorance  from  the  eyes  of  my  understand- 
ing, and  afford  me  more  scriptural  views  of  the  way  of 
salvation  through  a  Mediator." 

This  gradual  change  and  growing  light  issued  "in  no 
doubtful  character.  "His  personal  religion,"  said  the 
Eev.  J.  A.  James,  after  many  years  of  the  closest  inti- 
macy, "  was  not  only  free  from  every  shadow  of  a  shade 
of  suspicion  arising  from  external  blemishes  and  actual 
inconsistencies,  but  was  of  that  experimental  kind 
which  manifests  itself  in  watching  the  heart  with  all 
diligence,  in  maintaining  habitual  communion  with 
God  through  Christ,  in  bowing  with  deep  submission 
to  the  will  of  God,  and  in  a  growing  meetness  for  the 


ISABELLA   GRAHAM.  139 

heavenly  world.  His  beautiful  tract  on  spirituality 
of  nnind  was  with  him  no  theory.     He  copied  from 

his  heart,  as  well  as  set  a  model  for  it 

Perhaps  the  most  appropriate  term,  if  one  only  were 
selected,  to  set  forth  his  character,  would  be  complete- 
ness. There  was  more  of  symmetry  in  it  than  in  that 
of  any  other  man  I  am  acquainted  with.  It  would  be 
possible  to  find  some  in  whom  detached  and  separate 
excellences  rose  to  a  higher  eminence;  but  it  would 
not  be  easy  to  point  to  one  in  whom  so  many  were 
combined,  and  combined  in  such  nice  proportions  as  to 
form  extraordinary  beauty." 

In   Mrs.  Isabella   Graham  we   have   a  beautiful 
specimen  of  true  religion,  at  once  femi- 

^  '^  Mrs.    Graham; 

nine  and  practical.     And  its  origin  was     born  in  Lanark- 

n   •,      ■  Ml  1,1.,  shire,  1742 ;  died 

peaceiul,  imperceptible,  and  early,  like  in  now  York, 
that  of  Albert  Bengel.  Her  childhood 
and  youth  were  spent  among  all  the  traditional  asso- 
ciations of  Eldersle}^,  once  the  habitation  of  the  Scot- 
tish hero,  Sir  William  Wallace.  Of  the  period  at 
which  her  heart  first  tasted  that  the  Lord  is  gracious, 
her  biographer  tells  us  she  had  no  precise  recollection. 
As  far  back  as  she  could  remember,  she  took  delight 
in  pouring  out  her  soul  to  God.  In  the  woods  of 
Eldersley  she  selected  a  bush  to  which  she  resorted  in 
seasons  of  devotion;  and  under  this  bush  she  was 
enabled  to  devote  herself  to  God,  through  faith  in  her 
Eedeemer,  before  she  attained  her  tenth  year.  To 
this  favourite  and  (to  her)  sacred  spot  she  would 
repair  when  exposed  to  temptation  or  perplexed 
with  youthful  troubles.  From  thence  she  caused  her 
prayers  to  ascend,  and  always  found  peace  and  conso- 
lation. 


140  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

That  this  was  more  than  mere  girlish  sentiment  was 
proved  by  its  growing  and  iiractical  character.  While 
only  twenty-four  years  of  age  we  find  her  married, 
and  with  her  husband,  a  regimental  surgeon,  resident 
at  Fort  Niagara,  on  Lake  Ontario.  The  want  of 
religious  ordinances  was  here,  no  doubt,  the  occasion 
of  injury  to  the  life  of  God  in  her  soul.  But  a  con- 
scientious observance  of  the  Sabbath  was  the  means 
of  her  preservation.  She  wandered,  on  those  sacred 
days,  into  the  woods  around  Niagara,  searched  her 
Bible,  communed  with  God  and  herself,  and  poured 
out  her  soul  in  prayer  to  her  covenant  Lord. 

A  few  years  after  we  find  her  returning  from  Ame- 
rica, a  sorrowful  widow  with  three  infants  to  care  for. 
After  a  stormy  and  trying  voyage,  she  arrived  in  safety 
at  Belfast,  and  thence  embarked  for  Scotland  on  board 
a  packet  on  which,  as  she  afterwards  learned,  there 
was  not  even  a  compass.  There  arose  a  great  storm, 
and  they  were  tossed  to  and  fro  for  nine  hours  in  im- 
minent danger.  The  rudder  and  the  masts  were  car- 
ried away;  every  thing  on  deck  was  thrown  overboard; 
and,  at  length,  the  vessel  struck  in  the  night  upon  a 
rock  on  the  coast  of  Ayr.  The  greatest  confusion 
pervaded  the  passengers  and  the  crew.  Of  a  number 
of  young  students  going  to  the  University  of  Edin- 
burgh, some  were  swearing,  some  were  praying,  and 
all  were  in  despair.  The  widow  only  remained  com- 
posed. The  faith  which  was  implanted  in  her  while 
in  girlhood  she  rambled  among  the  woods  of  Elders- 
ley  was  her  support.  AVith  her  babe  in  her  arms,  she 
hushed  her  weeping  family,  and  told  them  that  in  a 
few  moments  they  should  all  go  to  join  their  father  in 
a  better  world.  The  passengers  wrote  their  names  in 
their  pocket-books  that  their  bodies  might  be  recog- 


PIETY    DEEP    AND    MATURE.  1-il 

nised.  One  young  man  came  into  the  cabin,  asking, 
"  Is  there  anj'  peace  here  V  He  was  surprised  to  find 
a  female  so  tranquil,  and  a  short  conversation  showed 
that  religion  was  the  source  of  comfort  and  hope  to 
them  both  in  this  perilous  hour. 

That  her  early  piety,  though  of  a  quiet  impercepti- 
ble growth,  was  not  superficial,  nor  merely  emotional, 
will  appear  likewise  from  the  language  in  which  she 
described  it  many  years  after.  "Writing  from  New 
York  to  a  friend  in  Edinburgh,  she  said,  ''It  is  now,  I 
think,  thirty-five  years  since  I  simply  but  solemnly 
accepted  of  the  Lord's  Christ  as  God's  gift  to  a  lost 
world.  I  rolled  my  condemned,  perishing,  corrupted 
soul  upon  this  Jesus,  exhibited  in  the  gospel  as  a  Saviour 
from  sin.  My  views  then  were  dark  compared  with 
what  they  now  are;  but  this  I  remember,  that,  at  the 
time,  I  felt  a  heart-satisfying  trust  in  the  mercy  of 
God  as  the  purchase  of  Christ,  and,  for  a  time,  rejoiced 
with  joy  scarcely  sujjportable,  singing  almost  continu- 
ally the  103d  Psalm."  Of  the  many  times  and  ways 
in  which  she  was  conscious  that  her  heart  had  departed 
from  God  during  her  Christian  life,  she  speaks  with 
natural  pathos  and  deep  humility.  "Never,"  she  says, 
"did  the  children  of  Israel's  conduct  in  the  wilderness 
depict  any  Christian's  heart  and  conduct  in  gosj)el 
times  better  than  mine."  But  she  adds,  "In  general 
the  Lord  had  some  aflliction  for  me  which  laid  me 
afresh  at  his  feet,  and  made  me  take  a  fresh  grasp  of 
Christ,  and  a  fresh  view  of  his  covenant ;  then  again 
I  felt  safety,  joy,  peace,  and  happiness :  thus  by  line 
upon  line,  by  precept  upon  precept,  and  by  stripe 
upon  stripe,  he  taught  me  that  I  could  not  walk  a 
moment  alone.  This  is  now  my  fixed  faith ;  and  in 
proportion  as  I  keep  it  in  sight,  I  walk  safely;  but  I 


142  THE   DIVINE'  LIFE. 

still  forget,  and  still  stumble,  and  still  fall;  but  I  am 
lifted  up,  and  taught  lesson  after  lesson;  and  I  shall 
stumble  and  fall  while  sin  is  in  me;  but  I  am  as  sure 
that  I  shall  be  lifted  up,  and  be  restored,  as  I  am  sure 
I  now  breathe,  and  write  these  things;  and  the  last 
stumble  shall  come,  and  the  last  stripe  shall  be  laid  on, 
and  the  last  lesson  taught,  and  that  which  concerns 
me  shall  be  perfected.  Then  shall  I  look  back,  and 
see  all  the  way  by  which  he  has  led  me,  to  prove  me, 
and  try  me,  and  show  me  what  was  in  my  heart,  that 
he  might  do  me  good  in  my  latter  end."  The  Atlantic 
rolled  between  the  scene  of  her  death  and  the  scene 
of  her  birth,  but  in  her  dying  hours  she  was  sustained 
by  the  very  hopes  which  she  had  first  acquired  and 
sung  in  the  woods  of  Eldersley. 


In   these   cases   the   work   of  conversion  was   de- 
veloped    gradually.       But     there     are 

Third  Class.  ,i  •  i  •    i       •.      •  t,j.         -ii 

others  m  which  it  is  wrought  with  a 
rapidity  which  may  be  characterized  as  instantaneous. 
The  Apostle  Paul  is  an  illustrious  example.  Full  of 
wrath  against  the  followers  of  Christ  as  he  hastens 
towards  Damascus,  a  few  moments  suffice  to  prostrate 
his  spirit  befoi'e  that  Jesus  whom  he  had  bitterly 
hated,  crying,  "Lord,  what  wilt  thou  have  me  to  do?" 
And  in  three  days,  as  we  have  seen,  he  is  an  established 
Christian,  prepared  to  go  forth  in  the  face  of  all  danger 
to  preach  Jesus  as  the  Saviour  of  the  world. 

Among   the  converts  of  Paul's  ministry  in  after- 

ThePhUippian     y^ars,    thc  jailer   at    Philippi    may   bo 

Jailer.  cited  as  an  example  of  the  same  order. 


THE    nilLirPIAN   JAILER.  143 

With  rigorous  cruelty,  he  thrusts  Paul  and  Silas  into 
the  inner  prison,  and  forces  their  limbs,  lacerated 
as  they  are  by  the  scourge,  into  the  stocks, — an 
instrument  employed  to  torture  the  bodies  of  the 
worst  malefactors.  He  is  awakened  in  the  night  b}"  an 
earthquake,  and,  seeing  the  doors  of  the  prison  open, 
and  preferring  death  to  disgrace,  he  draws  his  sword 
with  the  desperate  hardihood  of  a  Eoman  officer.  The 
prisoners,  however,  are  not  fled,  and  Paul  exclaims, 
''Do  thyself  no  harm;  for  we  are  all  here."  "But  now 
a  fear  of  a  higher  kind  took  possession  of  his  soul. 
The  recollection  of  all  that  he  had  heard  before  con- 
cerning these  prisoners,  and  all  that  he  had  observed 
of  their  demeanour  when  he  brought  them  into  the 
dungeon,  the  shuddering  thought  of  the  earthquake, 
the  burst  of  his  gratitude  towards  them  as  the  pre- 
servers of  his  life,  and  the  consciousness  that  even  in 
the  darkness  of  midnight  they  had  seen  his  intention 
of  suicide, — all  these  mingling  and  conflicting  emotions 
made  him  feel  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  higher 
power.  He  fell  down  before  them,  and  brought  them 
out,  as  men  whom  he  had  deeply  injured  and  insulted, 
to  a  place  of  greater  freedom  and  comfort;  and  then  he 
asked  them,  with  earnest  anxiety,  what  he  must  do  to 

be  saved The   awakening  of  his   conscience, 

the  presence  of  the  unseen  world,  the  miraculous  visi- 
tation, the  nearness  of  death,  coupled,  perhaps,  with 
some  confused  recollection  of  the  'way  of  salvation' 
which  these  strangers  were  said  to  have  been  pro- 
claiming, were  enough  to  suggest  that  inquiry  which 
is  the  most  momentous  that  any  human  soul  can 
make : — 'What  must  I  do  to  be  saved?'  Their  answer 
was  that  of  faithful  apostles.  They  preached  not 
themselves,  but  Christ  Jesus  the  Lord.      'Believe  not 


144  THE   DIVINE   LIfE. 

in  us,  but  ill  the  Lord  Jeaus,  and  tbou  shalt  be  saved; 
and  not  only  tbou,  but  the  like  faith  shall  bring  salva- 
tion to  all  thy  house.'  From  this  last  expression,  and 
from  the  words  which  follow,  we  infer  that  the  mem- 
bers of  the  jailer's  family  had  crowded  round  him  and 
the  apostles.  No  time  was  lost  in  making  known  to 
them  'the  word  of  the  Lord.'  All  thought  of  bodily 
comfort  and  repose  was  postponed  to  the  work  of 
saving  the  soul.  The  meaning  of  faith  in  Jesus  was 
explained,  and  the  gospel  was  preached  to  the  jailer's 
family  at  midnight,  while  the  prisoners  were  silent 
around,  and  the  light  was  thrown  on  anxious  faces 
and  the  dungeon-wall."  The  jailer  received  the  truth 
and  was  baptized.  Ilis  cruelty  was  immediately 
changed  into  hosjiitality  and  love.  The  sun  had  set 
upon  him  a  hardened  heathen;  it  arose  upon  him  an 
bumble  and  rejoicing  Christian.  "From  being  the 
ignorant  slave  of  a  heathen  magistracy,  he  had  become 
the  religious  head  of  a  Christian  family." 

The  miracles  which  accompanied  the  conversion  of 
Paul  and  of  the  Philippian  jailer,  and  which  contributed 
to  produce  them,  are  easily  separable  from  the  con- 
version itself.  So  are  the  extraordinary  circumstances 
which  accompanied  the  conversion  of  Colonel  Gardiner. 
Without  any  such  circumstances,  we  have  seen  con- 
version effected  with  equal  suddenness  in  Latimer  and 
Caroline  Fry.  Many  other  instances  will  occur  as 
we  proceed.  At  present  we  give  only  one.  The  sub- 
ject of  it  became  a  minister  of  Christ's  gospel,  and 
spent  a  long  lifetime  in  honourably  and  usefully 
"serving  his  generation  by  the  will  of  God." 


curistopiij!;r  andekson.  145 

Christopher  Anderson  Avas,  Ave  are  told,  naturally 

of  an  impulsive  and  fearless  disposition, 

Anderson;  born     -with  a  strong  dislike  to  whatever  was 

in       Edinburgh,  "-  .•         .        i?  i   • 

1782;  died  in  dcceptive,  and  impatient  ot  any  thing 
Edinburg  .  .  ^j^^^  ^^^  doubtful.  AVitli  a  more  than 
usual  aversion  to  hj-poci-isy  of  every  kind,  he  never 
made  the  smallest  pretence  to  religious  feeling  as  long 
as  he  was  conscious  he  had  none.  Till  he  could  enjoy 
religion,  he  Avas  determined  to  enjoy  the  icorld,  and  went 
as  far  in  gratifying  his  taste  for  the  gayeties  of  life  as  his 
place  in  a  Avell-orderod  religious  famil}'  Avould  permit. 
AVhile  his  walk  Avas  after  the  course  of  this  Avorld,  he 
needed  no  prompter  to  its  pleasures.  He  was  then, 
us  afterAvards  in  a  better  cause,  ever  the  leader,  never 
the  led.  The  early  conversion  of  all  his  brothers  had 
left  him  companionless  in  that  course.  0ne  after 
another,  and  in  the  very  order  of  their  age,  they  had 
been  called  by  divine  grace  to  the  possession  of  that 
truth  Avhich  Aveaned  them  from  the  pursuits  Avhich  con- 
tinued for  some  years  longer  to  charm  their  youngest 
brother.  <'My  delight  in  folly,"  he  says,  ''was  my 
oAvn  choice."  In  the  country,  where  many  of  his 
earlier  years  were  spent,  in  consequence  of  the  deli- 
cacy of  his  constitution,  he  was  a  devotee  to  the  music 
and  dancing  of  rural  fetes.  In  town,  where  the  ac- 
companiments are  less  harmless,  these  gratifications 
Avere  no  less  keenly  sought  after  and  indulged  in. 

It  Avas  scarcely  possible  that,  surrounded  as  he  was 
Avith  all  the  circumstances  favourable  to  early  piety, 
he  could  be  altogether  free  from  convictions  of  sin. 
And  when  he  began  to  attend  the  Tabernacle  in 
Edinburgh,  where  Mr.  James  Haldane  ministered, 
and  Avhere  such  men  as  Mr.  EoAvland  Hill  often 
preached,  divine  truth  laid  hold  of  him  more  closely. 
10 


146  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

Ever  in  earnest  himself  in  all  his  pursuits,  he  saw- 
that  these  men  were  in  earnest  too,  and  about  matters 
of  infinitely  more  importance  than  those  to  which  he 
had  given  himself  In  the  early  part  of  1799,  when 
about  seventeen  years  of  age,  he  was  sometimes 
alarmed  at  the  course  he  was  pursuing,  and  shuddered 
at  the  thought  of  where  it  must  end;  but  would  not 
allow  himself  to  think  long  enough  on  the  subject, 
lest  it  should  cost  him  those  pleasures  which  he  knew 
to  be  inconsistent  with  a  godly  life.  Eeturning  late 
one  evening  of  the  following  summer  from  a  concert 
of  music,  he  was  suddenly  and  strangely  impressed 
with  a  sense  of  the  vanity  of  the  world  and  all  its 
pleasures.  Prom  that  hour  he  resolved  to  "seek 
after  God,"  nor  was  it  long  till  he  found  him.  He 
had  soon  occasion  to  praise  that  ''Redeemer  who  had 
recalled  him  from  his  former  stupidity,  and  made  him 
see  the  riches  of  his  grace,  his  will  and  power  to  save, 
as  well  as  his  own  hardness  of  heart  and  rebellion 
against  the  kindest  of  Saviours  and  the  most  loving 
Lord."  His  prayer,  within  a  few  weeks  of  the  hour 
when  he  was  first  arrested  on  his  way  from  the  con- 
cert-room, was,  "O  Lord,  keep  me!  O  Lord,  guide 
me!  I  am  happy  in  thy  communion.  I  have  no 
pleasure  in  this  world  of  vexation  and  vanity  when 
thou  art  with  me.  Oh,  then,  do  thou  in  mercy  keep 
me  from  offending  thee,  and  afterwards  receive  me  to 
thyself  and  glory,  for  Jesus  Christ's  sake."  Re- 
peatedly has  he  stated  to  Christian  friends,  that  in  his 
case  the  transition  from  darkness  to  God's  marvellous 
light,  from  the  spirit  of  bondage  to  the  Spirit  of  adop- 
tion, was  nearly  instantaneous.  In  less  than  one 
hour  he  was  conscious  of  the  change,  and  was  seldom 
afterwards  troubled  with  doubts  respecting  its  reality. 


RAPIDITY   OF   THOUGHT.  147 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  in  cases  like  that  of 
Mr.  Anderson  there  is  no  intelligent  process  of 
thought  and  feeling,  no  succession  of  mental  reason- 
iiigs  and  emotions.  The  truth  seems  to  be  that 
the  whole  is  so  rapid,  that  a  man's  consciousness 
cannot  trace  them,  or  his  memory  cannot  retain 
them.  Even  in  ordinary  circumstances,  and  with- 
out any  special  impulse,  the  mind  can,  in  almost 
an  instant,  effect  a  process  of  reasoning,  the  steps 
and  links  of  which  it  might  require  hours  to  trace 
and  describe.  And  this  power  of  rapid  thinking  is 
greatly  increased  by  peculiar  impulses  and  circum- 
stances. It  is  told  by  a  distinguished  English  officer, 
that,  having  fallen  into  the  sea,  during  the  few  mo- 
ments of  consciousness  which  he  had  while  under  the 
waves,  the  whole  events  of  his  life,  from  childhood, 
seemed  to  repass  with  lightning-like  rapidity  and 
brightness  before  his  eyes.  "A  narration,"  it  has 
been  aptly  remarked,  "which  shows  on  what  accurate 
knowledge  the  old  Oriental  framed  his  story  of  the 
sultan  who  dipped  his  head  into  a  basin  of  water,  and 
had,  as  it  were,  gone  through  all  the  adventures  of  a 
crowded  life  before  he  lifted  it  out  again."  The 
rapidity  of  thought  in  dreaming  is  well  known.  "A 
friend  of  mine,"  says  Dr.  Abercrombie,  "dreamed  that 
he  crossed  the  Atlantic  and  spent  a  fortnight  in 
America.  In  embarking  on  his  return  he  fell  into 
the  sea,  and,  having  awoke  with  the  fright,  discovered 
that  he  had  not  been  asleep  above  ten  minutes." 
And  this  is  no  uncommon  case.  There  are  few  whose 
own  experience  will  not  supply  illustrations  of  the 
same  kind.  But  it  may  be  questioned  whether  the 
rapidity  of  thought  is  greater  in  sleep  than  while  we 
are   awake.     "For,"  to   use  the  words  of  Professor 


148  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

Bugald  Stewart,  "the  rapidity  of  thought  is  at  all 
times  such,  that,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  a  crowd 
of  ideas  may  pass  before  us  to  which  it  would  require 
a  long  discourse  to  give  utterance,  and  transactions  may 
be  conceived  which  it  would  require  days  to  realize." 
Even  on  these  common  principles,  then,  the  in- 
stantaneousness  of  conversion  is  quite  comjoatible  with 
the  exercise  of  intelligent  reason  and  deliberate 
choice.  In  one  moment  the  mind  may  exercise  its 
judgment  on  the  claims  of  God,  on  the  demerit  and 
wretchedness  of  sin,  and  on  the  sufficiency  and  suit- 
ableness of  the  mediation  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 
Great  as  these  themes  are,  they  are  simple  likewise. 
And  in  the  awakening  and  renewing  of  the  mind  by  an 
influence  which  the  Bible  teaches  us  to  regard  as  from 
God,  they  often  flash  upon  the  soul  with  a  light  in 
which  it  may  be  said  there  "is  no  darkness  at  all." 


We  now  proceed  to  illustrate  the  fact  that  in  the 
spiritual  world,  as  in   the   natural,  the 

Fourth  Class.  .  .    i  i 

Winter  often  yields  to  the  spring  only 
after  a  long  and  severe  conflict.  The  histories  of  John 
Bunj^an  and  of  Major-General  Andrew  Burn  will  be 
sufficient  for  the  purpose. 


John  Bunyan  was  brought  up  by  his  father  in  his 
own  craft  of  brazier  or  tinker.     As  to 

John  Bunyan;       ,   .  ,  ,  , 

born  at  Eistow     liis   early   character,   he    never   was   a 

in  1628;  died  in  ,         '  Tl         j.-  i  r- 

London, Aug. 31.     drunkai'd,    a    libertine,    or   a    lover   oi 

1688.  .  -  1    •  •     1  • 

sanguinary  sports :  his  special  sms 
were  profanity,  Sabbath-breaking,  and  heart-atheism. 
"The  thing  which  gave  Bunyan  any  notoriety  in  the 
days  of  his  ungodliness,  and  which  made  him  after- 


JOHN    BUNYAN.  149 

wards  appear  to  himself  such  a  monster  of  iniquity, 
was  the  energy  which  he  put  into  all  his  doings.  He 
had  a  zeal  for  idle  play  and  an  enthusiasm  in  mischief 
which  were  the  perverse  manifestations  of  a  forceful 
character/^*  ''He  walked  according  to  the  course  of 
this  world,  fulfilling  the  desires  of  the  flesh  and  of  the 
mind;  and,  conscious  of  his  own  rebellion,  he  said 
unto  God,  'Depart  from  me,  for  I  desire  not  the  know- 
ledge of  thy  ways.'  The  only  restraining  influence  of 
which  he  then  felt  the  power  was  terror.  His  days 
were  often  gloomy  through  forebodings  of  the  wrath  to 
come;  and  his  nights  were  scared  with  visions,  which 
the  boisterous  diversions  and  adventures  ©f  his  waking 
day  could  not  always  dispel.  He  would  dream  that 
the  last  day  had  come,  and  that  the  quaking  earth  was 
opening  its  mouth  to  lot  him  down  to  hell;  or  he 
would  find  himself  in  the  grasp  of  fiends  who  were 
dragging  him  powerless  away." 

These  were  the  fears  of  childhood.     As  he  grew 
older  he  grew  harder.     He  experienced  some  remark- 

*  The  reader  need  not  go  far  to  see  young  Bunyan.  Perhaps  there  is  near  your 
dwelling  an  Elstow, — a  quiet  hamlet  of  some  fifty  houses  sprinkled  about  in  the 
pioturesque  confusion  and  with  the  easy  amplitude  of  space  which  gives  an  old 
English  village  its  look  of  leisure  and  longevity.  And  it  is  now  verging  to  the  close 
of  a  long  summer's  day.  The  daws  are  taking  short  excursions  from  the  steeple, 
and  tamer  fowls  have  gone  home  from  the  darkening  and  dewy  green.  But  old 
Bunyan's  donkey  is  still  browsing  there,  and  yonder  is  old  Bunyan's  self, — the 
brawny  tramper  dispread  on  the  settle,  retailing  to  the  more  clownish  residents  tap- 
room wit  and  roadside  news.  However,  it  is  young  Bunyan  you  wish  to  see. 
Yonder  he  is,  the  noisiest  of  the  party,  playing  pitch-and-toss, — that  one  with  the 
shaggy  eyebrows,  whoso  entire  soul  is  ascending  in  the  tmrUng  penny, — giini 
enough  to  bo  the  blacksmith's  apprentice,  but  his  singed  garments  hanging  round 
hini  with  a  lank  and  idle  freedom  which  scorns  indentures;  his  energetic  move- 
ments and  authoritative  vociferations  at  onco  bespeaking  the  ragamuffin  ringleader. 
The  penny  has  come  down  with  the  wrong  side  uppermost,  and  the  loud  execration 
at  once  bewrays  young  Badman.  You  have  only  to  remember  that  it  is  Sabbath 
evening,  and  you  witness  a  scene  often  enacted  on  Elstow  Green  two  hundred  years 
ago." — Dr.  James  Hamilton,  to  whose  life  of  John  Bunyan  our  sketch  is  considerably 
indebted. 


150  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

able  escapes  from  death,  but  these  providences  neither 
startled  nor  melted  him.  He  married  very  early,  and 
his  wife  was  the  daughter  of  a  godly  man.  Her 
whole  property  consisted  of  two  small  books,  "  The 
Plain  Man's  Pathway  to  Heaven,"  and  the  ''Practice 
of  Piety,"  which  her  father  had  left  her  on  his  death- 
bed. Young  Bunyan  road  these  books,  and  was  often 
told  by  his  wife  what  a  good  man  her  father  had  been. 
The  consequence  was  that  he  felt  some  desire  to  reform 
his  vicious  life,  and  went  to  church  twice  a  day,  and 
said  and  sang  as  others  did.  He  became  at  the  same 
time  so  overrun  with  the  spirit  of  superstition,  that 
"  had  he  but  seen  a  priest,  though  never  so  sordid  and 
debauched  in  his  life,  his  spirit  would  fall  under  him, 
and  he  could  have  lain  down  at  the  feet  of  such  and 
been  trampled  upon  by  them ;  their  name,  their  garb 
and  work,  did  so  intoxicate  and  bewitch  him."  But 
whilst  adoring  the  altar,  and  worshipping  the  surplice, 
and  deifying  the  iu dividual  who  wore  it,  Bunyan  con- 
tinued to  curse  and  blaspheme  and  spend  his  Sabbaths 
in  the  same  riot  as  before. 

One  day,  however,  he  heard  a  sermon  on  the  sin 
of  Sabbath-breaking,  and  it  haunted  his  conscience 
throughout  the  day.  When  in  the  midst  of  the  excite- 
ment of  that  afternoon's  diversions,  a  voice  seemed  to 
dart  from  heaven  into  his  soul,  "Wilt  thou  leave  thy 
sins  and  go  to  heaven,  or  have  thy  sins  and  go  to  hell  ?" 
His  arm,  which  was  about  to  strike  a  ball,  was  arrested, 
and,  looking  up  to  heaven,  it  seemed  as  if  the  Lord 
Jesus  was  looking  down  upon  him  in  remonstrance 
and  deep  displeasure,  and  at  the  same  time  the  con- 
viction flashed  across  him  that  he  had  sinned  so  long 
that  repentance  was  now  too  late.  "  My  state  is 
surely  miserable,"  he  thought;  "miserable  if  I  leave 


BUNYAN   REFORMED.  151 

my  sins,  and  but  miserable  if  I  follow  them.  I  can 
but  be  damned ;  and  if  I  must  be  so,  I  had  as  good  be 
damned  for  many  sins  as  few."  In  the  desperation 
of  this  awful  conclusion  he  resumed  the  game;  and  so 
persuaded  was  he  that  heaven  was  forever  forfeited, 
that  for  some  time  after  he  made  it  his  deliberate 
policy  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  sin  as  rapidly  and  in- 
tensely as  possible.  "For  a  month  or  more  he  went 
on  in  resolute  sinning,  only  grudging  that  he  could 
not  get  such  scope  as  the  madness  of  despair  solicited. 
When  one  day  standing  at  a  neighbour's  window, 
cursing  and  swearing,  and  'playing  the  madman  after 
his  wonted  manner,'  the  woman  of  the  house  protested 
that  he  made  her  tremble,  and  that  truly  he  was  the 
ungodliest  fellow  for  swearing  that  she  ever  heard  in 
all  her  life,  and  quite  enough  to  ruin  the  j^outh  of  the 
whole  town.  The  woman  was  herself  a  notoriously 
■worthless  character;  and  so  severe  a  reproof  from  so 
strange  a  quarter  had  a  singular  effect  on  Bunyan's 
mind.  He  was  silenced  in  a  moment.  He  blushed 
before  the  God  of  heaven ;  and  as  he  there  stood  with 
hanging  head,  he  wished  with  all  his  heart  that  he 
w^ere  a  little  child  again,  that  his  father  might  teach 
him  to  speak  without  profanity;  for  he  thought  his 
bad  habit  so  inveterate  now,  that  reformation  was  out 
of  the  question." 

So  it  was,  however,  that  from  that  instant  onward 
Bunyan  ceased  to  swear,  and  people  wondered  at  the 
change.  Immediately  after  this  circumstance,  in- 
terested by  the  conversation  of  a  poor  man  who  seemed 
religious,  he  betook  himself  to  his  Bible,  and  began  to 
take  pleasure  in  reading  the  historical  parts  of  it.  His 
outward  life  underwent  much  reformation,  and  on- 
lookers might  conclude  that  the  winter  was  at  length 


152  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

past  and  gone,  and  that  spring-  was  truly  come.  Eut 
he  wanted  the  soul-emancipating  and  sin-subduing 
knowledge  of  Jesus  Christ.  The  Son  had  not  made 
him  free.  His  own  account  of  himself  is  very  in- 
structive: — "I  did  set  the  commandments  before  me 
for  my  way  to  heaven;  which  commandments  I  also 
did  strive  to  keep,  and,  as  I  thought,  did  keep  them 
pretty  well  sometimes,  and  then  I  should  have  com- 
fort; yet  now  and  then  should  break  one,  and  so  afflict 
my  conscience;  but  then  I  should  repent,  and  say  I 
was  soi-ry  for  it,  and  promise  God  to  do  better  next 
time,  and  there  got  help  again ;  for  then  I  thought  I 
j)lea8ed  God  as  well  as  any  man  in  England.  Thus  I 
continued  about  a  year;  all  which  time  our  neighbours 
did  take  me  to  be  a  very  godly  man,  a  new  and  reli- 
gious man,  and  did  marvel  much  to  see  such  great  and 
famous  alteration  in  my  life  and  manners;  and,  indeed, 
so  it  was,  though  I  knew  not  Christ,  nor  grace,  nor 
faith,  nor  hope;  for,  as  I  have  well  since  seen,  had  I 
then  died,  my  state  had  been  most  fearful.  But,  I  say, 
my  neighbours  were  amazed  at  this  my  great  conver- 
sion from  prodigious  profaneness  to  something  like  a 
moral  life;  and  so  they  well  might,  for  this  my  con- 
version was  as  great  as  for  Tom  of  Bedlam  to  become 
a  sober  man.  Now  I  was,  as  they  said,  become  godly; 
now  I  Avas  become  a  right  honest  man.  But,  oh  ! 
when  I  understood  these  were  their  words  and  opinions 
of  me,  it  pleased  me  mighty  well.  For  though,  as  yet, 
I  was  nothing  but  a  poor  painted  hypocrite,  yet  I 
loved  to  be  talked  of  as  one  that  was  truly  godly." 
A  "  poor  painted  hypocrite"  he  calls  himself;  not  that 
he  was  a  conscious  deceiver,  but  that  all  his  goodness 
lay  on  the  surfjice,  being  as  yet  ignorant,  he  says,  both 


bunyan's  wakino  dream.  153 

of  the  corruption  of  liis  iiatin'e  and  of  the  want  and 
worth  of  Jesus  Christ  to  save  him. 

The  lips  of  other  women,  but  persons  of  very  dif- 
ferent character  from  her  who  had  reproved  him  for 
his  profane  oaths,  were  the  means  of  another  step 
greatly  in  advance. 

He  had  gone  to  Bedford  in  prosecution  of  his  calling; 
when,  passing  along  the  street,  he  noticed  a  few  poor 
Avomen  sitting  in  a  doorway  and  talking  together. 
He  listened  to  their  conversation.  It  suiprised  him ; 
for,  though  he  had  by  this  time  become  a  great  talker 
on  sacred  subjects,  their  themes  were  far  beyond  his 
reach.  God's  work  in  their  souls,  the  views  they  had 
obtained  of  their  natural  misery  and  of  God's  love  in 
Christ  Jesus,  what  words  and  promises  had  particularly 
refreshed  them  and  strengthened  them  against  the 
temptations  of  Satan, — it  was  of  matters  so  personal 
and  vital  that  they  spoke  to  one  another.  They 
seemed  to  Bunyan  as  if  they  had  found  a  new  world. 
Their  conversation  made  a  deep  impression  on  his 
mind.  He  saw  that  there  was  something  in  real 
religion  into  which  he  had  not  yet  penetrated. 

What  John  Bunyan  heard  in  the  society  of  these 
humble  instructors  suggested  to  him  a  sort  of  waking 
vision.  "  I  saw  as  if  they  were  on  the  sunny  side  of 
some  high  mountain,  there  refreshing  themselves  with 
the  pleasant  beams  of  the  sun,  while  I  was  shivering 
and  shrinking  in  the  cold,  afflicted  with  frost,  snow, 
and  dark  clouds.  Methought,  also,  betwixt  me  and 
them  I  saw  a  wall  that  did  compass  about  this  moun- 
tain; now,  through  this  wall  my  soiil  did  greatly  desire 
to  pass,  concluding  that,  if  I  could,  I  would  even  go 
into  the  very  midst  of  them,  and  there  also  comfort 
myself  with  the  heat  of  their  sun.     About  this  wall  I 


154  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

thought  myself  to  go  again  and  again,  still  prying  as 
I  went,  to  see  if  I  could  find  some  gap  or  passage  to 
enter  therein.  But  none  could  I  find  for  some  time. 
At  the  last  I  saw,  as  it  were,  a  narrow  gap,  like  a 
little  doorway  in  the  wall,  through  which  I  attempted 
to  pass.  Now,  the  j)assage  being  very  strait  and 
narrow,  I  made  many  offers  to  get  in,  but  all  in  vain, 
even  till  I  was  well  right  beat  out  in  striving  to  get 
in.  At  last,  with  great  striving,  methought  I  at  first 
did  get  in  my  head,  and  after  that,  by  a  sideling 
striving,  my  shoulders  and  my  whole  body.  Then  I 
was  exceeding  glad;  went  and  sat  down  in  the  midst 
of  them,  and  so  was  comforted  with  the  light  and  heat 
of  their  sun.  Now,  this  mountain  and  wall  were  thus 
made  out  to  me.  The  mountain  signified  the  church 
of  the  living  God;  the  sun  that  shone  thereon,  the 
comfortable  shining  of  his  merciful  face  on  them  that 
were  therein;  the  wall,  I  thought,  was  the  world,  that 
did  make  separation  between  the  Christian  and  the 
world;  and  the  gap  which  was  in  the  wall,  I  thought, 
was  Jesus  Christ,  who  is  the  way  to  God  the  Father. 
But  forasmuch  as  the  passage  was  wonderful  narrow, 
even  so  narrow  that  I  could  not,  but  with  great  diffi- 
culty, enter  in  thereat,  it  showed  me  that  none  could 
enter  into  life  but  those  who  were  in  downright 
earnest,  and  unless  they  left  that  wicked  world  behind 
them;  for  here  was  only  room  for  body  and  soul,  but 
not  for  body  and  soul  and  sin." 

This  waking  dream  did  Bunyan  good.  He  began  to 
read  the  Bible  w^th  new  eagerness;  and  that  portion 
of  it  which  had  formerly  been  distasteful  to  him — the 
Epistles  of  Paul — now  became  the  subject  of  his 
special  study.  But  he  fell  into  a  very  common  error. 
The  object  to  which  the  eye  of  an  inquiring  sinner 


LUTHER    ON    GALATIANS.  155 

should  be  directed  is  Christ,  the  finished  work,  and 
the  sufficient  Saviour.  But,  in  point  of  fact,  many  go 
in  quest  of  that  act  of  the  mind  which  unites  the  soul 
to  the  Saviour  and  makes  salvation  personal;  and  it 
is  only  by  studying  faith  that  they  come  at  last  to  an 
indirect  and  circuitous  acquaintance  with  Christ.  By 
some  such  misdirection  Bunyan  was  misled.  In 
quest  of  faith  he  went  a  long  and  joyless  journej",  and 
was  wearied  with  the  greatness  of  his  way.  There  is 
scai'cely  a  fear  which  can  assail  an  inquiring  spirit 
which  did  not  at  some  stage  of  his  progress  arrest  his 
mind.  He  was  no  longer  a  proud  Pharisee,  but  a 
deeply-humbled  sinner.  "My  original  and  inward 
pollution, — that  was  my  plague  and  affliction.  That 
I  saw  at  a  dreadful  rate,  always  putting  forth  itself 
within  me, — that  I  had  the  guilt  of  to  amazement; 
by  reason  of  that  I  was  more  loathsome  in  my  own 
eyes  than  a  toad;  and  I  thought  I  was  so  in  God's 
eyes  too." 

Years  of  despondency  passed  over  him  before  he 
came  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  peace  of  the  gospel. 

The  light  which  first  stole  in  upon  his  soul,  and  in 
which  his  darkness  finally  melted  away,  was  a  clear 
discovery  of  the  person  of  Christ,  more  especially  a 
distinct  perception  of  the  disj)Ositions  which  he  mani- 
fested while  here  on  earth.  And  one  thing  greatly 
helped  him  :  he  alighted  on  a  congenial  mind,  and 
an  experience  in  many  respects  like  his  own.  Pro- 
vidence threw  in  his  way  an  old  copy  of  Luther's 
Commentary  on  Galatians,  "  so  old  (he  says)  that  it 
was  ready  to  fall  piece  from  piece  if  I  did  but  turn  it 
over.  When  I  had  but  a  little  way  perused  the  book, 
I  found  my  condition  in  his  experience  so  largely  and 
profoundly  handled  as  if  his  book  had  been  written 


156  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

out  of  my  heart."  And  such  were  the  benefits  he 
derived  from  this  book,  that  lie  preferred  it  ever  after 
before  all  the  books  he  had  ever  seen,  excepting  the 
Holy  Bible,  ''as  most  fit  for  a  wounded  conscience." 
His  happiness  was  now  as  intense  as  his  misery  had 
been.  He  wished  he  were  fourscore  years  old,  that 
he  might  die  quickly,  that  he  might  go  to  be  with 
Him  who  had  made  his  soul  an  offering  for  his  sins. 
"I  felt  love  to  him  as  hot  as  fire;  and  now,  as  Job 
said,  I  thought  I  should  die  in  my  nest."  But  another 
period  of  fearful  agony  awaited  him,  and,  like  the  last, 
it  continued  for  a  year.  It  arose  from  a  temptation 
which  took  this  strange  and  dreadful  form, — to  sell 
and  part  with  his  Saviour,  to  exchange  him  for  the 
things  of  this  life — for  any  thing.  This  horrid  thought 
he  could  not  shake  out  of  his  mind,  day  nor  night,  for 
many  months  together.  It  intermixed  itself  with 
every  occupation,  however  sacred,  or  however  trivial. 
The  only  case  he  could  compare  to  his  own  was  that 
of  Judas.  At  last,  after  many  alternations  of  feeling, 
he  so  far  emerged  from  his  misery  that  "he  seemed 
to  stand  upon  the  same  ground  with  other  sinners, 
and  to  have  as  good  a  right  to  the  word  and  prayer  as 
any  of  them."  This  was  a  great  step  in  advance. 
His  misery  had  hitherto  been  occasioned  by  an  error 
which  keeps  many  anxious  souls  from  comfort.  He 
regarded  his  own  case  as  a  special  exception  to  which 
a  gospel,  otherwise  general,  did  not  apjjly;  but  his 
snare  was  now  broken,  and,  though  with  halting  pace, 
he  was  on  the  way  to  settled  rest  and  joy.  Eelief 
came  slowly  but  steadily,  and  was  the  more  ahiding 
because  he  bad  learned  by  experience  to  distrust  any 
comfort  which  did  not  come  from  the  word  of  God. 
Such  passages  as  these, — "My  grace  is  sufficient  for 


BUNYAN    REJOICING.  157 

thee,"  and  "Him  that  coraeth  to  me  I  will  in  no 
Avise  cast  out/' — greatly  lightened  his  burden;  but  he 
derived  still  stronger  encouragement  from  considering 
that  the  gospel,  with  its  benignity,  is  much  more 
expressive  of  the  mind  and  disposition  of  God  than 
the  law  with  its  severity.  Mercy  rejoiceth  over 
judgment.  "How  shall  not  the  ministration  of  the 
Spirit  be  rather  glorious?  For  if  the  ministration  of 
condemnation  be  glory,  much  more  doth  the  minis- 
tration of  righteousness  exceed  in  glory.  For  even 
that  which  was  made  glorious  had  no  glory  in  this 
respect,  by  reason  of  the  glory  that  excelleth."*  The 
same  truth  was  presented  to  him  by  the  narrative  of 
the  Transfiguration,  when  the  voice  came  out  of  the 
cloud,  saying,  "This  is  my  beloved  Son:  hear  him." 
"  Then  I  saw  (says  Bunj^an)  that  Moses  and  Elias  must 
both  vanish,  and  leave  Christ  and  his  saints  alone." 

One  day,  as  he  was  passing  into  the  field,  these  words 
fell  upon  his  soul, — "  Thy  righteousness  is  in  heaven." 
The  eyes  of  his  soul  saw  at  the  same  time  Jesus 
Christ  at  God's  right  hand,  and  there,  he  said,  is  my 
righteousness.  "I  saw,  moreover,  that  it  was  not  my 
good  frame  of  heart  that  made  my  righteousness 
better,  nor  my  bad  frame  that  made  my  righteousness 
worse;  Tor  my  righteousness  was  Jesus  Christ  himself, 
Hhe  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever.'"  Now 
was  he  loosed  from  his  afflictions  and  his  irons;  his 
temptations  also  fled  away;  and  he  went  home  re- 
joicing for  the  grace  and  love  of  God.  The  words, 
"  Thy  righteousness  is  in  heaven,"  were  not  to  be  found 
in  the  Bible,  but  then  there  were  these: — "He is  made 
of  God  unto  us  wisdom,  and  righteousness,  and  sanc- 

*  2  Cor.  iii.  S-10. 


158  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

tification,  and  redemption."*  This  blessed  truth  was 
his  peace  with  God.  He  Avas  complete  in  Christ  Jesus; 
and,  though  sometimes  interrupted  by  disquieting 
thoughts  and  strong  temptations,  his  subsequent  career 
was  one  of  growing  comfort  and  prevailing  peace. 

The  occasion  of  the  protracted  conflict  through 
which  John  Bunyan  passed  into  the  kingdom  of  God 
is  not  to  be  found  in  the  gospel,  but  in  himself.  His 
ignorance,  his  love  of  sin,  his  strong  passions,  his  over- 
mastering imagination,  are  distinctly  traceable,  in  va- 
rious combinations,  in  the  bitter  struggles  by  which 
his  progress  to  life  was  impeded. 

Andrew    Burn   was    the    child    of   Christian    pa- 
Major-Geuerai     rcuts,  and  it  is  liis  own  testimony  that 

Andrew  Burn; 
born  at  Dundee, 
Sept.  8th,  1742; 
died,  Sept.   18th, 

^^^^-  to  give  that  reason  a  right  bias  towards 

its  proper  object.  The  history  of  his  youth  and  early 
manhood  reads  more  like  a  romance  than  a  true  tale, 
so  full  is  it  of  singular  combinations  of  circumstances 
and  hairbreadth  escapes  by  sea  and  land.  But  amid 
his  wanderings,  and  all  the  miseries  in  which  they 
involved  him,  he  seldom  thought  of  the  God  to  whose 
providence  he  owed  so  much.  Speaking  of  his  resi- 
dence in  Jamaica,  he  says,  "By  this  time  the  serious 
impressions  of  childhood  had  lost  great  part  of  their 
influence,  and,  as  that  diminished,  the  darling  inclina- 
tions of  a  corrupt  heart  gradually  prevailed,  and  so  for 
gained  the  ascendency,  that  some  of  the  most  glaring 
sins,  which  at  first  appearance  struck  me  with  horroi', 
imperceptibly  lost  their  deformity  in  my  eyes,  and, 


ANDREW   BURN.  159 

Proteus-like,  transformed  themselves  into  innocent 
enjoyments.  Thus  advancing,  step  by  step,  in  the 
dangerous  road  of  sin,  I  soon  arrived  at  dreadful 
lengths;  drank  in  the  deadly  poison  with  as  much 
eagerness  as  the  thirsty  ox  drinks  in  water,  and  rushed 
on  rapidly  with  the  wicked  multitude  in  the  broad 
road  to  eternal  ruin."  From  this  time  the  most 
imminent  perils  and  the  most  unexpected  deliverances 
failed  alike  to  impress  his  heart.  Brought  low  by  a 
fever  on  one  occasion  when  at  sea,  he  expected  every 
hour  to  be  thrown  overboard  with  others  who  had 
died  around  him;  but  he  "had  not  the  least  painful 
conviction  of  his  accumulated  guilt."  "  I  was  dying," 
he  says,  "and  that  in  every  respect  like  the  brute  that 
perisheth,  though  endued  with  all  the  faculties  of  a 
rational  being,  and  these  in  full  exercise,  unimpaired 
by  bodily  pain."  On  another  occasion  his  ship  struck 
on  a  sand-bank,  and  the  scene  of  dismay  which  followed 
was  enough  to  make  the  stoutest  sinner  tremble. 
One  of  his  messmates,  who  had  acquired  considerable 
property  in  Jamaica,  cursed  God  that  he  had  made 
him  spend  so  many  toilsome  years  in  a  scorching  and 
unhealthy  climate  to  procure  a  little  wealth,  and, 
when  with  pain  and  trouble  he  had  heaped  it  together, 
had  tantalized  him  with  a  sight  of  the  happy  shore 
where  he  expected  peacefully  to  enjoy  it,  but  now 
with  one  cruel  sudden  stroke  had  defeated  all  his 
hopes.  The  conduct  of  this  blasphemer,  whose  de- 
spair seemed  like  that  of  a  fiend  of  the  bottomless  pit, 
was  in  striking  contrast  with  that  of  the  captain,  who, 
"fearless,  with  composure  smiled  at  danger's  threat- 
ening form."  The  captain  was  a  Christian,  and,  with  a 
presence  of  mind  and  a  wisdom  which  seemed  almost 
inspired,  gave  instructions  which  were  the  means  of 


IGO 


TllK   DIVINE   LIFE. 


saving  his  ship.  But  neither  the  despair  of  the  bhis- 
phemer,  nor  the  cahnness  of  the  Christian,  produced 
any  salutary  impression  on  young  Burn's  mind,  and 
he  landed  on  the  shores  of  England  as  godless  as  ever. 
After  a  time  we  find  him  stationed  at  Chatham,  as 
an  officer  in  the  Marines.  The  review  of  the  past  three 
years  of  folly  and  adventure  led  him  to  return  to  the 
externally-religious  habits  in  which  he  had  been 
trained,  and  to  observe  the  ordinances  of  public 
worship.  In  the  esteem  of  many  he  was  now  a  good 
Christian,  but  his  own  confession  is,  that  he  remained 
the  willing  slave  to  various  sinful  lusts  and  passions, 
and  felt  no  remorse  in  daily  doing  many  things  which 
he  could  not  think  of  in  after-life  without  shuddering. 
He  was  only  a  Pharisee.  Yet  by  degrees  he  cut  off 
many  sins  which  were  as  dear  to  him  as  a  right  hand 
or  a  right  eye.  His  struggles  with  his  love  of  gambling 
were  protracted  and  painful.  First  he  vowed — and 
that  very  solemnly — that  he  would  devote  only  a  cer- 
tain time  to  cards,  and  no  more;  but,  this  resolution 
failing,  he  vowed  to  play  only  for  a  certain  sum,  and 
never  to  exceed  it.  When  that  would  not  do,  he 
vowed  still  more  resolutelj^  to  play  only  for  recreation. 
But  all  proved  ineffectual.  The  more  he  resolved,  the 
stronger  grew  the  sin.  A  multitude  of  broken  vows 
heaped  guilt  upon  guilt,  and  brought  an  accumulated 
load  of  sorrow  upon  his  soul.  One  Lord's  day,  when 
he  was  to  take  his  place  at  the  table  of  the  Lord,  his 
conscience  so  condemned  him,  that  he  tried  in  vain  to 
pacify  it  by  a  renewal  of  his  vows.  <' There  is  an 
Achan  in  the  camp,"  said  conscience:  "approach  the 
table  of  the  Lord,  if  you  dare."  Scared  by  these 
monitions,  and  yet  unwilling  to  part  with  his  darling 
lust,  he   became   like  one   possessed.      Eestlcss  and 


BROKEN    RESOLUTIONS.  161 

uneasy,  he  fled  to  the  fields  to  vent  his  misery  under 
the  wide  canopy  of  heaven.  Thoughts  of  future  judg- 
ment filled  him  with  indignation  against  the  "accursed 
thing"  wdiich  was  corrupting  and  tormenting  his  soul, 
and,  crying  to  God  for  help,  he  knelt  down  under  a 
hedge,  and,  taking  heaven  and  earth  to  witness,  wrote 
on  a  piece  of  paper  with  his  pencil  a  solemn  vow  that 
he  never  would  play  at  cards  on  any  pretence  what- 
soever, so  long  as  he  lived.  This  was  no  sooner  done 
than  his  burden  was  gone  and  he  was  at  peace.  But, 
alas !  the  reformation  was  all  on  the  surface.  While 
endeavouring  to  heal  his  soul  in  one  place,  ere  he  was 
aware,  sin  broke  out  in  another.  At  the  same  time 
there  was  much  about  him  that  fostered  the  delusion 
that  he  was  now  a  Christian,  and  that  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  fall  into  gross  sins  again. 

After  enjoying  his  commission  in  the  Marines  for 
some  two  years,  the  restoration  of  peace  reduced  him 
to  half-pay,  and  circumstances  took  him  into  France, 
•where  he  was  left  to  plunge  again  into  all  manner  of 
wickedness.  It  was  by  slow  degrees,  and  after  many 
hard-fought  battles  with  his  conscience,  that  he  suc- 
ceeded in  persuading  himself  that  his  vow  to  abstain 
from  card-playing  was  rash  and  need  not  be  kept. 
The  bondage  of  sin  in  which  he  was  now  held  was 
strengthened  by  the  inroads  of  skepticism.  But  the 
doubts  which  he  gradually  entertained  as  to  the  im- 
mortality of  his  soul,  instead  of  relieving  him  from 
anxiety  respecting  the  fiiture,  became  as  a  quenchless 
fire  of  torment  within  him.  The  grossest  sins  assumed 
a  very  difterent  aspect  under  the  teaching  of  infidelity, 
and  appeared  to  him  nothing  more  than  lawful  grati- 
fications, so  that  they  awakened  no  fear.  But  the 
idea  of  annihilation  was  unbearable.  "If  death  is  to 
11 


162  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

destroy  in  me  this  part  which  thinks,  which  reasons, 
and  with  so  much  ardour  breathes  after  an  assurance 
of  its  existence  in  a  future  state,  what  a  despicable 
being  do  I  appear  in  my  own  eyes  !  Beyond  all  ex- 
pression miserable  !  How  much  reason  have  I  to 
curse  the  day  wherein  I  was  born  I" 

When  the  poor  miserable  man  would  return  to 
England  he  had  not  the  means,  and  he  betook  himself 
to  the  writing  of  plays  to  provide  them,  but  in  vain. 
That  unseen  Hand  which  had  protected  him,  even 
amid  his  sins,  at  length  opened  a  way.  But  ho 
saw  not  its  leading.  On  his  way  home  he  spent  six 
weeks  in  Paris,  and  indulged  without  remorse  in 
every  forbidden  pleasure  which  that  city  could  present. 
And  after  an  absence  of  six  years,  Andrew  Burn  finds 
himself  once  moi'e  in  England, — not  now  a  proud 
Pharisee  as  when  he  left  it,  but  a  proud  skeptic.  He 
was  not  a  little  self-complacent  that  he  had  shaken  off 
the  prejudices  of  education  and  could  look  down  with 
pity  on  well-meaning  people  who  knew  no  better. 
His  religion  was,  he  thought,  of  a  most  refined 
description,  though  he  confessed  it  would  puzzle  an 
abler  judgment  than  his  to  define  what  it  was.  At 
the  same  time,  amid  the  confused  crowd  of  philo- 
80j)hical  notions  with  which  his  brain  teemed,  he 
frequently  heard  the  murmuring  of  two  distinct  voices 
which  sometimes  forced  him  to  listen  to  them  alter- 
nately. One,  an  importunate  visitor,  very  roughly  told 
him  he  was  wrong,  and,  when  he  endeavoured  to  con- 
vince him  to  the  contrary,  would  grow  so  bold  and 
clamorous,  that,  for  the  sake  of  a  little  jieace,  he  was 
obliged  to  stifle  the  voice  in  the  pursuit  of  some 
worldly  pleasure,  but  never  could  silence  it  altogether. 
To  the  other  voice   he   listened  with   pleasure.     It 


A   DREAM.  163 

whispered  to  him,  in  the  language  of  hope,  that  a  day 
would  come  when  he  should  alter  his  present  way  of 
thinking  and  adopt  one  far  better.  At  the  same 
time,  while  this  hope  was  secretly  cherished,  the 
whole  bent  of  his  mind  was  opposed  to  a  practical 
reception  of  the  truths  of  the  gospel. 

Soon  after  his  return  to  England,  the  sudden  death 
of  a  beloved  brother  made  him  feel  the  worthlessness 
of  those  notions  to  which  he  had  clung  tenaciously  for 
years.  ''  They  now  stood  dressed  in  their  proper 
colours,  and  loudly  proclaimed  their  diabolical  origin. 
A  strong  and  restless  desire  to  be  savingly  united  to 
God  and  his  people  drove  them  from  their  place  in 
his  heart,  and  evidently  prevailed  in  their  room.  I 
saw  (he  says)  the  absolute  necessity  there  was  of  such 
a  Saviour  as  Jesus  Christ,  and  was  convinced  there 
was  no  possibility  of  being  saved  any  other  way  than 
by  him."  While  in  this  state  of  mind  he  dreamed  a 
dream,  which  produced  results  that  made  him  regard 
it  ever  after  as  the  principal  means  of  his  conversion. 
He  dreamed  that  he  was  sitting,  a  little  before  day- 
light, with  his  deceased  brother,  on  the  wall  of  the 
parish  churchyard  with  which  they  had  been  familiar 
in  boyhood.  His  brother  asked  him  if  he  would  not 
go  with  him  into  the  church.  Immediately  rising, 
they  walked  together  towards  the  porch,  and  when 
they  reached  the  inner  door  the  brother  somehow  or 
other  passed  in  before  him,  and,  when  he  attempted 
to  follow,  the  door,  which  slid  down  from  above,  like 
those  in  ancient  fortifications,  was  instantly  let  down 
more  than  half-way,  so  that  he  now  found  it  requisite 
to  bend  himself  almost  double  before  he  could  possibly 
enter.  But,  as  he  stooped  to  try,  the  door  continued 
falling  lower  and  lower,  till  the  passage  became  so 


164  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

narrow  that  he  found  it  impracticable  in  that  posture. 
Grieved  to  be  left  behind,  and  determined  to  get  in  if 
possible,  he  fell  down  on  his  hands  and  tried  to 
squeeze  his  head  and  shoulders  through;  but,  finding 
himself  still  too  high,  he  kneeled  down,  crept,  wrestled, 
and  pushed  eagerly,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  He  now 
threw  off  all  his  clothes,  and  crawled  like  a  worm; 
but,  being  very  desirous  to  preserve  a  fine  silk  em- 
broidered waistcoat  which  he  had  brought  from  France, 
he  kept  that  on  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to  carry  it 
with  him;  then,  laying  himself  fiat  on  his  face,  he 
pushed,  and  strove,  and  soiled  the  precious  waistcoat, 
but  could  not  get  in  after  all.  At  last,  driven  almost 
to  despair,  he  strij)ped  himself  entirely,  and  forced  his 
body  between  the  door  and  the  ground,  till  the  rough 
stones  and  gravel  tore  all  the  skin  and  fiesh  off  his 
breast,  and,  as  he  thought,  covered  him  with  blood. 
Perceiving,  however,  that  he  advanced  a  little,  he  con- 
tinued to  jjress  in  with  more  violence  than  ever,  till  at 
last  he  got  safely  through.  As  soon  as  he  stood  on 
his  feet  inside,  an  invisible  hand  clothed  him  in  a  long 
white  robe;  and  as  he  looked  round  to  view  the  place, 
he  saw  a  goodly  company  of  saints, — among  whom 
was  his  brother, — all  dressed  in  the  same  manner,  par- 
taking of  the  Lord's  Supper.  He  sat  down  in  the 
midst  of  them,  and,  the  bread  and  wine  being  adminis- 
tered to  him,  he  felt  a  seraphic  ecstasy  which  no 
mortal  could  express.  He  heard  a  voice  call  him  three 
times  by  name  and  tell  him  he  was  wanted  at  home. 
And  so  great  was  the  joy  of  his  soul  that  it  awoke  him 
out  of  his  slumbers,  and  ''made  him  start  up  in  bed 
singing  the  high  praises  of  God." 

Now,  what  shall  we  make  of  this  dream  ?     It  is 
easy  to  trace  in  it  the  natural  workings  of  the  particu- 


BURN    IN    HIS   RIGHT    MIND.  165 

lar  state  of  mind,  in  which  he  was  at  the  time.  Sick 
of  the  sinful  courses  he  had  followed,  and  sick  of  that 
infidelity  which  had  persuaded  him  that  sin  was  no 
evil,  he  had.  now  a  "  strong  and.  restless  desire"  to  bo 
found  in  Christ.  And  the  struggle  to  which  this 
desire  jjrompted  him  became,  in  his  dream,  a  physical 
struggle  to  effect  an  entrance  into  a  material  building. 
But,  admitting  the  dream  to  have  had  this  natural 
origin,  it  exhibits  the  intensity  of  the  mental  conflicts 
in  which  it  originated,  and  became,  through  the  mercy 
of  God,  the  means  of  increasing  the  desires  from 
which  it  sprang,  and  of  encouraging  him  to  hope  for 
.victory.  That  the  hand  of  God  was  in  it  was  soon 
apparent.  Mr.  Burn,  from  the  day  of  that  dream, 
began  to  live  a  life  as  different  from  that  which  went 
before  as  any  two  opposites  can  be.  "  Old  things 
were  now  done  away,  and  all  things  became  new. 
Not  (he  says)  that  I  obtained  a  complete  victory  over 
my  domineering  sins  all  at  once,  or  renounced  all  my 
false  opinions  in  one  day;  but  a  bitter  and  eternal 
war  was  instantly  declared  against  the  one,  and,  as 
God  made  the  discovery  to  me,  I  let  go  the  other. 
My  mind  was  gradually  enlightened  to  comprehend 
the  glorious  and  important  truths  of  the  everlasting 
gospel,  and  the  eyes  of  my  understanding  were  so 
opened  to  discern  spiritual  things,  that  I  now  read  my 
Bible  with  wonder  and  astonishment."  And  as  he 
read  he  grew  in  grace  and  in  the  knowledge  of  God. 
<' Surely  nothing  less  than  divine  power,"  he  wrote 
many  years  afterwards,  "could  in  the  space  of  a  few 
months  have  thus  effectually  overthrown  the  massive 
bulwarks  of  infidelity,  which  Satan  had  been  con- 
tinually strengthening  for  the  space  of  six  years  in 
my  corrupt  heart,  or  have  bent  my  vicious  and  stub- 


166  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

born  will  to  embrace  the  self-abasing  doctrines  of  the 
gospel.  That  such  a  change  has  been  wrought  I  am 
as  certain  as  of  my  own  existence;  so  likewise  am  I 
confident  that  it  was  not  in  the  smallest  degree  attri- 
butable to  any  inherent  strength  of  my  own.  God 
alone  must  have  been  the  author  of  it :  to  him,  there- 
fore, be  all  the  glory."  At  the  time  of  his  conversion, 
Andrew  Burn  was  twenty-six  years  of  age,  and  his 
future  life  was  one  both  of  exemplary  virtue  and  of 
enlightened  piety.  "Forty-three  years,"  to  use  the 
words  engraved  on  his  tomb,  "  he  served  his  God  as  a 
faithful  soldier  of  Jesus  Christ." 

To  the  question  whether  personal  conversion  is  not 
to  be  understood  somewhat  differently  now  from  what 
it  was  among  the  primitive  Christians,  Albert  Bengel 
replied,  "The  mark,  the  object,  the  end  of  conversion, 
must  ever  be  the  same ;  though  the  point  where  con- 
version begins,  or  from  which  it  sets  out,  must  vary 
with  different  classes  of  men,  as  idolaters,  Jews,  and 
nominal  Christians."  The  mental  positions  of  the 
superstitious  man  and  of  the  skeptic,  for  example,  are 
opposites.  The  point  from  which,  to  use  the  words  of 
Bengel,  conversion  sets  out  in  these  cases  is  very  dif- 
ferent, and  the  process  will  be  very  different.  But, 
sti^ll,  as  Bengel  has  it,  "  the  mark,  the  object,  the 
end,"  will  bo  found  to  be  the  same. 


The  histories  of  Luther  and  Latimer,  as  already 
narrated  for  another  pui-pose,  may  be 

Fifth  Class.  .^     ,  .„        ,        ,  .  \.    ,.^  "^   . 

Cited  as  illustrations  oi  the  conversion 
of  men  under  the  baneful  influence  of  superstition; 
and  those  of  Caroline  Fry  and  Andrew  Burn  as  illus- 
trations of  the  conversion  of  skeptics.     We  now  add 


THOMAS   BILNEY.  167 

Thomas  Bilncy,  Professor  Butler,  and  Martin  Boos, 
as  belonging  to  the  former  class  j  and  Captain  James 
Wilson  and  Henry  Kirko  White  as  belonging  to 
the  latter. 

Thomas  Bilney  was  distinguished  in  Trinity  Hall, 
Cambridge,  as  a  young  doctor  of  canon 
law,  of  earnest  mind  and  modest  dis-  suffe^rmart;^- 
position.  His  tender  conscience  strove  bridge  i^n  1531™' 
to  fulfil  the  commandments  of  God, 
but  ineffectually;  and  he  applied  to  the  priests, 
whom  he  looked  upon  as  physicians  of  the  soul. 
Kneeling  before  his  confessor,  with  humble  look  and 
pale  face,  he  told  him  all  his  sins,  and  even  those  of 
which  he  doubted.  The  priest  prescribed  at  one 
time  fasting,  at  another,  prolonged  vigils,  and  then 
masses  and  indulgences,  which  cost  him  dearly.  The 
poor  doctor  went  through  all  these  practices  with 
great  devotion,  but  found  no  consolation  in  them. 
Being  weak  and  slender,  his  body  wasted  away  by 
degrees,  his  understanding  grew  weaker,  his  imagina- 
tion faded,  and  his  purse  became  empty.  *'Alas," 
said  he,  with  anguish,  "my  last  state  is  worse  than  my 
first."  From  time  to  time  an  idea  crossed  his  mind : — 
"May  not  the  priests  be  seeking  their  own  interests, 
and  not  the  salvation  of  my  soul?"  But,  immediately 
rejecting  the  rash  doubt,  he  fell  back  under  the  iron 
hand  of  the  clergy. 

One  day  Bilney  heard  his  friends  talking  about  a 
new  book :  it  was  the  Greek  Testament  of  Erasmus, 
printed  with  a  translation,  which  was  highly  praised 
for  its  Latinity.  Attracted  by  the  beauty  of  the  style, 
rather  than  the  divinity  of  the  subject,  he  stretched 
out  his  hand;  but,  just  as  he  was  going  to  take  the 


168  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

volume,  fear  came  upon  him,  and  he  withdrew  it 
hastily.  In  fact,  the  confessors  strictly  prohibited 
Greek  and  Hebrew  books,  "  the  sources  of  all  here- 
sies;" and  Erasmus's  Testament  was  particularly 
forbidden.  Yet  Bilney  regretted  so  great  a  sacrifice. 
Was  it  not  the  Testament  of  Jesus  Christ?  Might 
not  God  have  placed  therein  some  word  which  perhaps 
might  heal  his  soul?  He  stepped  forward,  and  then 
again  shrank  back.  At  last  he  took  courage.  Urged, 
as  he  believed,  by  the  hand  of  God,  he  walked  out  of 
the  college,  slipped  into  the  house  where  the  volume 
was  sold  in  secret,  bought  it  with  fear  and  trembling, 
and  then  hastened  back  and  shut  himself  up  in  his 
room.* 

He  opened  it.  His  eyes  caught  these  words : — "  This 
is  a  faithful  saying,  and  worthy  of  all  acceptation,  that 
Christ  Jesus  came  into  the  world  to  save  sinners;  of 
whom  I  am  chief"  He  laid  down  the  book  and 
meditated  on  the  astonishing  declaration.  "What? 
St.  Paul  the  chief  of  sinners,  and  yet  St.  Paul  sure  of 
being  saved?"  He  read  the  verse  again  and  again. 
"Oh,  assei'tion  of  St.  Paul,  how  sweet  art  thou  to  my 
soul  I"  he  exclaimed.  This  declaration  continually 
haunted  him,  and  in  this  manner  God  instructed  him 
in  the  secret  of  his  heart.  He  could  not  tell  what 
had  haj^pened  to  him :  it  seemed  as  if  a  refreshing 
wind  were  blowing  over  his  soul,  or  as  if  a  rich  treasure 
had  been  placed  in  his  hands.  The  Holy  Spirit  took 
what  was  Christ's  and  announced  it  to  him.  "I  also 
am  like  Paul,"  exclaimed  he,  with  great  emotion,  "and 
more  than  Paul,  the  greatest  of  sinners.  But  Christ 
saves   sinners.      At   last   I   have    heard   of  Christ." 

*  We  take  our  narrative  mainly  from  D'Aubign^. 


"JESUS    CHRIST    SAVES."  109 

There  followed  a  wonderful  transformation.  An  un- 
known joy  pervaded  him;  his  conscience,  until  then 
sore  with  the  wounds  of  sin,  was  healed;  instead  of 
despair,  he  felt  an  inward  peace,  passing  all  under- 
standing. "Jesus  Christ,"  exclaimed  he,  —  "jcs, 
Jesus  Christ  saves."  "I  see  it  all,"  said  Bilney :  "my 
vigils,  my  fasts,  my  pilgrimages,  mj  purchase  of  masses 
and  indulgences,  were  destroying  instead  of  saving 
me.  All  these  efforts  were,  as  St.  Augustine  says,  a 
hasty  running  out  of  the  right  way." 

Bilney's  experience  of  the  power  of  Christ's  gospel 
directed  his  teaching  of  others.  Neither  priestly 
absolution  nor  any  other  rite  could  give  remission  of 
sins,  he  and  his  fellow-converts  declared:  the  assu- 
rance of  pardon  is  obtained  by  faith  alone;  and  that 
faith  purifies  the  heart.  With  these  convictions  they 
said  to  all  men,  "Eepent  and  be  converted."  But  this 
new  mode  of  teaching  produced  a  great  clamour.  A 
famous  orator  undertook  one  day  at  Cambridge  to 
show  that  it  was  useless  to  preach  conversion  to  a 
sinner.  "Thou,  who  for  sixty  years  past,"  said  he, 
"hast  wallowed  in  thy  lusts,  like  a  sow  in  her  mire, 
dost  thou  think  that  thou  canst  in  one  year  take  as 
many  steps  towards  heaven,  and  that  in  thine  age,  as 
thou  hast  done  towards  hell?"  Bilney  left  the  church 
with  indignation.  "Is  that  preaching  repentance  in 
the  name  of  Jesus?"  he  asked.  "Does  not  this  priest 
tell  us  Christ  will  not  save  thee?  Alas  for  so  many 
years  that  this  deadly  doctrine  has  been  taught  in 
Christendom!"  The  young  convert  had  evidence  in 
himself,  that  the  true  doctrine  of  Christ's  gospel  is 
the  power  of  God  to  the  conversion  of  the  chief  of 
sinners. 


170  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

Professor  Archer  Butler,  of  Dublin,  has  become 
known  since  his  decease  to  multitudes 

■Wm.       Archer  i         i       i  i  t        r>    t   •  i  -i 

Butler;      born    who  had  Bot  heard  oi  his  name  while 

near  Clonmel  in       -,.     .  tt-  r>  •       >>      n   n  •         •  n 

1814;  died  July  living.  His  '^Kemains  luUy  justiiy 
the  esteem  in  which  he  was  held  by 
his  friends,  as  a  brilliant  ornament  of  Irish  litera- 
ture, and  still  more  as  a  "vessel  unto  honour,  sanc- 
tified, and  meet  for  the  Master's  use,  and  prepared 
unto  every  good  work."  "His  master-mind  could 
charm  by  the  playfulness  of  its  fancy,  while  it 
astonished  by  the  vastness  of  its  intellectual  resources." 
"His  multifarious  knowledge  was  communicated  on 
the  most  trivial  suggestion,  yet  without  effort  or  dis- 
play. The  profound  reflection,  the  subtle  analysis,  the 
most  pungent  wit,  droj)ped  from  him  in  brilliant  suc- 
cession, while  he  appeared  entirely  unconscious  that 
he  was  sjjeaking  more  than  household  words."  The 
spiritual  history  of  such  a  man  must  be  full  of  interest. 
But  it  has  been  given  to  the  world  only  in  a  brief  and 
general  statement, — a  statement,  however,  which, 
though  lacking  in  minute  detail,  is  suggestive  and 
instructive. 

Professor  Butler's  father  was  a  member  of  the 
Established  Church  of  Ireland;  his  mother  was  a 
zealous  Roman  Catholic,  and  by  her  solicitude  he  was 
baptized  and  educated  in  the  Eomish  faith.  His  early 
childhood  was  spent  amidst  scenery  which  made  an 
ineffaceable  impression  upon  a  susceptible  tempera- 
ment. He  was  never  a  proficient  in  the  noisy  games 
of  his  coevals,  but  his  playful  wit  and  amiable  manners 
made  him  universally  popular.  His  leisure  hours 
were  devoted  to  poetry  and  music,  in  which  he  became 
greatly  skilled.     And  while  yet  a  schoolboy,  we  are 


ARCHER   BUTLER.  171 

told  that  he  had  penetrated  deep  into  the  profound 
depths  of  metaphysics. 

"It  was  about  two  years  before  his  entrance  into 
college  that  the  important  change  took  place  in  But- 
ler's religious  views  by  which  he  passed  from  the 
straitest  sect  of  Eoman  Catholicism  into  a  faithful  son 
and  champion  of  the  Church  of  Ireland.  He  had  from 
the  cradle  been  deeply  impressed  with  a  sense  of 
religion,  and  conscientious  in  the  observance  of  the 
rites  and  ceremonies  of  his  creed.  His  moral  feelings 
were  extraordinarily  sensitive.  For  long  hours  of 
night  he  would  lie  prostrate  on  the  ground,  filled  with 
remorse  for  otfences  which  would  not  for  one  moment 
have  disturbed  the  self-complacency  of  even  well-con- 
ducted youths.  Upon  one  occasion,  when  his  heart 
was  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  sinfulness,  he  attended 
confession,  and  hoped  to  find  relief  for  his  burdened 
sjiirit.  The  unsympathizing  confessor  received  these 
secrets  of  his  soul  as  if  they  were  but  morbid  and 
distemjDcred  imaginations,  and  threw  all  his  poignant 
emotions  back  upon  himself  A  shock  was  given  to 
the  moi-al  nature  of  the  ardent,  earnest  youth:  he 
that  day  began  to  doubt;  he  examined  the  contro- 
versy for  himself,  and  his  powerful  mind  was  not  long 
before  it  found  and  rested  in  the  truth." 

Could  we  fill  up  the  outline  which  his  biographer 
has  thus  given  us,  we  should  doubtless  have  a  record 
of  mental  conflict  as  thrilling  and  instructive  as  that 
of  Luther  and  Bilney  and  Latimer.  Butler  was  bur- 
dened with  the  same  sense  of  sin,  tried  the  same  means 
of  deliverance,  and  discovered  their  inefficacy,  and  at 
last,  like  them,  found  at  once  peace  to  his  conscience 
and  holiness  to  his  heart  by  faith  in  the  all-sufficient 
atonement  of  the  Son  of  God.     His  brief  life  was,  as 


172  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

man  would  say,  terminated  too  soon,  but  not  before  he 
had  ample  time  to  prove  in  his  own  experience  the 
divinity  of  the  truths  in  which  his  soul  found  both 
rest  and  purity.  The  last  sermon  he  preached  was 
founded  on  Matthew  xxviii.  18-20,  and  one  who 
heard  it  informs  us,  that  in  reference  to  the  Godhead 
of  our  Lord  he  maintained  that  it  might  be  proved  by 
internal  evidence  to  any  mind  which  could  be  brought 
to  feel  what  sin  was,  for  such  a  mind  could  never  feel 
sure  of  an  adequate  atonement  without  an  infinite 
sacrifice.  Christ's  servants,  he  said,  had  to  preach  the 
cross  of  Christ:  on  the  one  hand  its  efficacy  to  save; 
on  the  other,  its  sharpness  and  its  sternness,  its  con- 
tradictoriness  to  luxury  and  ease,  and  its  daily  self- 
denials.  Within  a  few  daj^s  from  the  delivery  of  this 
sermon  he  was  prostrated  by  sudden  fever,  and,  during 
the  few  days  which  preceded  his  departure  to  a  sin- 
less world,  one  ejaculation  was  constantly  upon  his 
tongue: — '^ Christ  my  righteousness." 

Martin  Boos  entered  on  the  duties  of  the  priest's 
office  in  the  Eoman  Catholic  church 
bo'^non"the^c°on-  ^i^h  an  uuspottcd  charactcr.  From 
Bavar°a!  vc^^H  ^^^^  carlicst  ycars  his  conduct  had  been 
29^1825'^'*  ^"^'  irreproachable;  his  application  to  his 
literary  and  theological  studies  had  been 
close  and  successful,  and  he  was  habituall}^  conscien- 
tious and  devout.  Yet  his  heart  was  not  at  rest;  nor 
could  he  say,  with  the  Apostle  Paul,  "  The  life  which 
I  now  live  in  the  flesh  I  live  b}^  the  fiiith  of  the  Son 
of  God,  who  loved  me  and  gave  himself  for  me."  He 
was  trying  to  be  his  own  saviour,  and  to  find  for  him- 
self a  path  to  heaven.  His  good  works,  mortifications, 
and  fasts,  were  the  sacrifices   he  offered  to  God  for 


MARTIN    BOOS.  173 

expiating  his  Bins  and  obtaining  evei'lasting  life. 
Twenty  j'^ears  afterwards  (1811)  he  wrote  of  the  "im- 
mense pains"  w^hich  he  took  to  be  a  very  pious  man, 
in  these  terms: — ''For  years  together,  even  in  winter, 
1  lay  on  the  cold  floor.  I  scourged  myself  till  I  bled 
again.  I  fasted  and  gave  my  bread  to  the  poor.  I 
spent  every  hour  I  could  spare  in  the  church  or  the 
cemetery.  I  confessed  and  took  the  sacrament  almost 
every  week.  In  short,  I  gained  such  a  character  for 
piety  that  I  was  appointed  i^refect  of  the  congregation 
by  the  ex-Jesuits.  But  what  a  life  I  led !  The  pre- 
fect, with  all  his  sanctity,  became  more  and  more 
absorbed  in  self,  melancholy,  anxious,  and  formal. 
The  saint  was  evermore  exclaiming  in  his  heart,  'Oh, 
wretched  man  that  I  am !  who  shall  deliver  me !' 
And  no  one  replied,  '  The  grace  of  God  through  Jesus 
Christ  our  Lord.'  No  one  gave  the  sick  man  that 
spiritual  specific,  '  The  just  shall  live  by  faith ;'  and 
when  I  had  obtained  it,  and  found  the  benefit  of  it,  the 
whole  world,  with  all  its  learning  and  spiritual  author- 
ity, would  have  persuaded  me  that  I  had  swallowed 
2)oi80n,  and  was  poisoning  all  around  me ;  that  I  de- 
served to  be  hung,  drowned,  immured,  banished,  or 

burned I  tried  as  long  as  other  people  the 

notion  that  a  man  can  be  saved  and  justified  by  his 
own  doings;  but  I  have  found  in  an  ancient  document 
that  we  are  to  be  justified  and  saved  for  Christ's  sake, 
without  our  merits,  and  in  this  faith  I  shall  die.  If 
others  will  not  make  use  of  this  bridge,  they  must 
wade  through  the  stream ;  but  let  them  see  to  it  that 
they  are  not  drowned." 

The  history  of  the  change  which  the  young  priest 

*  See  the  Life  of  Martin  Boos ;  Monthly  Volume  of  the  Religious  Tract  Society. 


174  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

Boos  underwent  is  deeply  interesting.  His  own  ac- 
count of  it  is  very  simple  : — "  In  1788  or  1789  I  visited 
a  sick  person,  who  was  respected  for  her  deep  humility 
and  exemplary  piety.  I  said  to  her,  'You  will  die  very 
peacefully  and  happily.'  'Why  so  ?'  she  asked.  'Be- 
cause you  have  led,'  I  replied,  'such  a  j)ious  and  holy 
life.'  The  good  woman  smiled  at  my  words,  and  said, 
'If  I  leave  the  world  relying  on  my  own  piety,  I  am 
sure  I  shall  be  lost.  But  relying  on  Jesus  my  Saviour, 
I  can  die  in  comfort.  What  a  clergyman  you  are  ! 
What  an  admirable  comforter  !  If  I  listened  to  you, 
what  would  become  of  me  ?  How  could  I  stand  before 
the  divine  tribunal,  where  every  one  must  give  an 
account  even  of  her  idle  words  ?  Which  of  our  actions 
and  virtues  would  not  be  found  wanting  if  laid  in  the 
divine  balances?  No;  if  Christ  had  not  died  for  m.e, 
if  he  had  not  made  satisfaction  for  me,  I  should  have 
been  lost  forever,  notwithstanding  all  my  good  works 
and  pious  conduct.  He  is  my  hope,  my  salvation,  and 
my  eternal  happiness.' " 

Martin  Boos  found  instruction  where  he  sought  it 
not.  He  entered  the  house  of  affliction  to  console, 
without  knowing  the  true  consolation.  At  first  he 
was  astounded  and  ashamed,  that  what  he,  after  all 
his  studies,  was  ignorant  of,  should  be  taught  him  by 
a  simple-hearted  woman  on  her  death-bed.  Happily 
for  him,  he  was  humble  enough  not  to  reject  the  truth 
when  conveyed  to  him  by  so  mean  an  instrument.  It 
made  an  indelible  impression  on  his  mind,  and  formed 
the  foundation  of  his  future  faith  and  life. 

The  spiritual  results  of  the  doctrines  which  Boos 
now  taught,  both  in  public  and  in  private,  may  be 
understood  from  one  example.  Among  the  Eoman 
Catholics  in  Wiggensbach,  of  which  he  was  curate  for 


A  SOUL  IN  SEARCH  OF  PEACE.         175 

a  time,  were  many  persons,  who,  failing  to  find  comfort, 
either  by  attending  the  confessional  or  by  receiving 
absolution  from  the  priests,  retired  into  convents, 
where  they  hoped  to  obtain  relief  for  their  spiritual 
wants.  Of  this  class  was  a  female,  who,  having  been 
disgusted  with  the  world,  formed  the  design  of  enter- 
ing a  nunnery,  imagining  that  in  such  a  retreat  she 
would  lead  a  holy  and  happy  life.  Accordingly,  she 
withdrew  to  a  nunnery,  with  a  feeling  of  ecstasy,  as  if 
entering  heaven  itself.  But  she  found  there  no  spiritual 
life, — no  Saint  Theresa, — and  told  her  associates  that 
they  were  no  nuns,  but  mere  hood-wearers.  She  soon 
left  them,  and  then  tried  what  pilgrimages  could  do 
for  her.  She  travelled  twice  to  Maria  Einsiedel,  in 
Switzerland,  but  the  second  time  came  back  more 
uneasy  and  dissatisfied  than  before.  She  entreated 
her  parish  priest  to  tell  her  some  other  method  of  ap- 
peasing the  inexpressible  longings  of  her  heart;  but  to 
no  purpose.  He  onl}-  taxed  her  with  pride  and  folly, 
and  asked  her  whether  she  was  not  learned  enoi:gh,  or 
whether  she  wanted  to  be  wiser  than  himself  At  last 
she  consulted  Boos,  and  found  what  her  soul  had  been 
seeking:  he  led  her  to  Christ,  and  in  him  she  found 
the  rest  and  comfort  which  he  offers  to  the  weary  and 
heavy  laden.  From  that  time  she  felt  no  delight  in 
her  rosary,  and  other  formal  devotions.  This  dis- 
turbed her,  and  she  almost  suspected  herself  of  heresy. 
She  laid  the  matter  before  Boos.  He  asked  her  what 
so  occupied  her  time  and  thoughts,  that  she  could  no 
longer  use  her  rosary.  "I  do  nothing  and  think  of 
nothing,"  she  replied,  "but  to  love  Jesus  because  he  is 
in  me  and  with  me."  "You  can  do  nothing  better 
than  that,"  said  Boos:  "it  is  no  heresy  to  love  Jesus 
and  think  of  him.     To  do  every  thing  out  of  love  to 


176  THE   DlVliNE    LIFE. 

liim  is  of  more  worth  than  many  rosaries."  This 
satisfied  her  for  a  while ;  but  soon  after  the  thought 
struck  her,  *'  This  clergyman  makes  so  little  account 
of  rosaries,  perhaps  he  is  not  of  much  worth  himself" 
She  went  and  told  him,  with  fear  and  trembling,  what 
had  passed  through  her  mind.  Boos  laughed  heartily, 
and  said,  ''Yes,  you  are  in  the  right;  in  myself  I  am 
of  no  worth,  but  what  I  have  taught  you  is  of  worth, 
for  it  was  taught  by  Jesus  Christ  and  his  apostles ; 
that  remains  true:  continue  then  in  the  fiiith;  do  good 
and  shun  evil." 

Not  long  after,  a  feast  of  indulgences  was  held  in 
her  neighbourhood;  but  instead  of  attending  it  she 
went  to  Boos,  fifteen  miles  oif.  On  his  asking  her  the 
reason,  she  said,  "Jesus  is  my  absolution,  since  he 
died  for  me.  His  blood,  simj)ly  and  alone,  is  the 
absolution  for  all  my  sins."  "  But  who  teaches  you 
this?"  said  Boos.  "No  one,"  she  replied;  "the 
thought  comes  of  itself  into  my  mind:  Jesus  takes 
away  my  sins,  and  those  things,  too,  on  which  I  have 
dejDended  so  much,  but  have  found  them  to  afford 
neither  rest  nor  peace.  I  am  now  convinced  that  all 
is  of  no  avail,  unless  Jesus  takes  away  our  sin  and 
dwells  in  our  hearts." 

The  gospel  which  Boos  now  loved  and  preached 
produced  fruits  which  those  who  saw  them  witnessed 
with  astonishment.  Men  were  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  that  "faith  which  worketh  by  love,"  that  meekness 
and  humilit}'^,  which  were  so  conspicuous  in  his  con- 
verts. Their  surprise  was  soon  exchanged  for  hatred, 
and  they  actually  accused  these  pious  people  of  having 
intercourse  with  the  devil, — an  accusation  Avhich  will 
not  surprise  us  when  we  remember  that  virtually  the 
same  charge  was  brought  against   their  Lord  and 


LYTTLETOX    AND    WKST.  Ill 

Master,  although  in  him  there  was  no  sin.  Many 
■were  dragged  before  the  magistrates,  and  their  houses 
ransacked.  But  when  the  magistrates  found  that 
no  charge  could  be  substantiated  against  them  except 
the  ardour  of  their  devotion,  they  dismissed  them  as 
silly  pietists,  but  without  promising  them  an}-  protec- 
tion. This  lenity  of  their  judges  only  stimulated  the 
fury  of  the  persecutors,  who  raised  an  outcry  against 
them  everywhere,  in  the  pulpits,  streets,  and  taverns. 
Some  were  obliged  to  jemain  in  obscure  retreats  for 
five  or  six  months.  Others  were  tracked  like  wild 
beasts  to  their  hiding-places,  and  forced  to  leave  their 
kindred  and  native  country  forever.  And  the  only 
crime  of  these  victims  of  fanaticism  was  that  they  re- 
ceived Jesus  Christ  as  their  only  Saviour,  and  lived 
according  to  the  holy  commandments  of  God.  It  was 
the  divine  life  which  the  gospel  produced  in  them  that 
made  them  hateful  to  the  world.  The  future  ministry 
of  Martin  Boos  was  a  perpetual  martyi-dom.  Bonds 
and  imprisonment  and  exile  were  his  lot.  But  he  was 
faithful  unto  death. 


Many  histories  of  conversion  from  infidelity  do  not 
furnish  us  with  sufiicient  information 
to  enable  us  to  judge  how  far  the  intel- 
lectual conviction  of  the  divinity  of  Christianity  has 
been  accompanied  Avith  heart-faith  in  Christ  as  the 
sinner's  Saviour.  But  even  of  these  many  are  deeply 
interesting  and  instructive. 

It  is  told  of  Lord  Lyttleton  and  his  friend  Gilbert 
West  that  they  agreed  together  to  write  Lord  Lyttieton 
something  in  support  of  their  unbelief.  ^^<iGii'^'^tw««'- 
The  former  chose  the  conversion  of  St.  Paul  as  his 

12 


l/<5  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

theme,  and  the  latter  the  resurrection  of  Jesus  Christ. 
But  the  result  of  their  studies  was  the  reverse  of  their 
anticipations.  Lyttleton  found  in  the  history  of  the 
conversion  of  St.  Paul  an  irrefragable  argument  in 
support  of  the  entire  Christian  scheme,  and  West 
found  a  like  argument  in  the  history  of  our  Lord's 
resurrection.  And  to  this  circumstance  we  owe  the 
valuable  works  of  these  authors  on  these  special  topics 
in  defence  of  the  Christian  faith. 

It   is   not,    however,  in    all    cases,  by   the    simple 
process  of  inquiry  and  reasoning  that  the  bonds  of 
infidelity  are  loosed.     The  infidelity  of  John  Newton, 
as  we  shall  see,  gave  way  amid  the  terrors  of  the 
storm.     The  infidelity  of  Eichard  Cecil  gave  way,  as 
we  shall  see,  through  the  wretchedness  of  soul  to 
which  it  reduced  him.     Soame  Jenyns, 
who   was    member    of   Parliament   for 
Cambridge,  could  find  no  rest  for  his  spirit,  and  was 
thus  impelled  to  examine  the  grounds  of  his  unbelief. 
The  result  was  that  he  discovered  his  error,  believed , 
in  the  Saviour  of  mankind,  and  wrote  a  small  treatise 
in  defence  of  the  gospel,  entitled,  "A  View  of  the 
Internal   Evidences   of   Christianity."     General   Dy- 
kern    was    a    professed    deist    till    he 
received  his  mortal  wound  at  the  battle 
of  Bergen,  in  1759.     During  his  illness,  however,  a 
great  change  was  wrought  upon  his  mind,  and  he  died 
in  the  full  assurance  of  faith,  glorying  in  the  salvation 
of  Jesus,  and  wondering  at  the  hajipj^  change  that  had 
taken  jDlace  in  his  soul.     The  case  of  the  Earl  of  Eo- 
The  Earl  of     chestcr  is  wcll  kuowu, — "a  great  wit,  a 
Koohester.  great  scholar,  a  great  poet,  a  great  sin- 

ner, and  a  great  penitent."  He  had  sunk  and  wallowed 
in  the  very  slough  of  wickedness,  but,  when  ''he  came 


THE   EARL   OF   ROCHESTER.  179 

to  himself,"  he  regarded  himself  as  the  greatest  sinner 
the  sun  had  ever  shone  upon,  and  wished  he  had  been 
a  crawling  leper  in  a  ditch,  rather  than  have  oflFended 
God  as  he  had  done.  ''One  day,  at  an  atheistical 
meeting  in  the  house  of  a  person  of  quality,"  he  told 
a  friend  afterwards,  "I  undertook  to  manage  the  cause, 
and  was  the  principal  disputant  against  God  and 
religion ;  and  for  my  performances  received  the 
applause  of  the  whole  company.  Upon  this  my  mind 
was  terribly  struck,  and  I  immediately  replied  thus  to 
myself: — '  Good  God !  that  a  man  who  walks  upright, 
who  sees  the  wonderful  works  of  God,  and  has  the  use 
of  his  senses  and  reason,  should  use  them  to  the 
defying  of  his  Creator  I'"  But  there  was  no  genuine 
conversion  till  the  fifty-third  chapter  of  Isaiah  was 
read  to  him,  together  with  some  other  parts  of  the 
Sacred  Scriptures,  "when  it  pleased  God  to  fill  his 
mind  with  such  peace  and  joy  in  believing,  that  it  was 
remarkable  to  all  about  him.  Afterwards  he  fre- 
quently desired  those  who  were  with  him  to  read  the 
same  chapter  to  him;  upon  which  he  used  to  enlarge 
in  a  very  familiar  and  afi'ectionate  manner,  applying 
the  whole  to  his  own  humiliation  and  encouragement. 
'O  blessed  God,'  he  would  say,  'can  such  a  horrid 
creature  as  I  am  be  accepted  by  thee,  who  have 
denied  thy  being  and  condemned  thy  power?  Can 
there  be  mercy  and  pardon  for  me?  Shall  the 
unspeakable  joys  of  heaven  be  conferred  on  me? 
O  mighty  Savioui',  never  but  through  thine  infinite 
love  and  satisfaction!  Oh,  never  but  by  the  pur- 
chase of  thy  blood!'  adding,  that  with  all  abhor- 
rence he  reflected  upon  his  former  life, — that  from  his 
heart  he  repented  of  all  that  foil}"  and  madness  of 
which  he  had  been  guilty." 


180  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

Even  in  those  cases  in  wliicli  men  are  led  to 
embrace  the  gospel  through  a  slow  and  pains-taking 
process  of  reasoning,  it  is  found  that  the  paths  they 
travel  in  search  of  truth,  and  the  arguments  which 
affect  them  most,  are  very  different.     The  author  of  a 

small  work  called  the  ''Philosophy  of 
phy  of  the  Plan    the  Plan  of  Salvation"  says  of  himself, 

"During  some  of  the  first  years  of  the 
writer's  active  life  he  was  a  skeptic;  he  had  a  friend, 
who  has  since  been  well  known  as  a  lawyer  and  a 
legislator,  who  was  also  skeptical  in  his  opinions.  We 
were  both  conversant  with  the  common  evidences  of 
Christianity.  None  of  them  convinced  our  minds  of 
the  divine  origin  of  the  Christian  religion,  although 
we  both  thought  ourselves  willing  to  be  convinced  by 
sufficient  evidence.  Circumstances  which  need  not 
be  named  led  the  writer  to  examine  the  Bible,  and  to 
search  for  other  evidence  which  had  been  commended 
to  his  attention  by  a  much-esteemed  clerical  friend 
who  presided  in  one  of  our  [American]  colleges.  The 
result  of  the  examination  was  a  thorough  conviction 
in  the  author's  mind  of  the  truth  and  divine  authority 

of   Christianity Coleridge   has   somewhere 

said  that  the  Levitical  economy  is  an  enigma  yet  to  be 
solved.  To  thousands  of  intelligent  minds  it  is  not 
only  an  enigma,  but  an  absolute  barrier  to  their 
belief  in  the  divine  origin  of  the  Bible.  The  solution 
of  the  enigma  was  the  clue  which  aided  the  writer  to 
escape  from  the  labyrinth  of  doubt;  and  now,  stand- 
ing uj^on  the  rock  of  unshaken  faith,  he  offers  the  clue 
that  guided  him  to  others." 

In  the  histories  of  Captain  Wilson  and  Henry 
Kirko    White,    which    we    narrate    more    minutely, 


CAPTAIN    JAMES    WILSON.  181 

there  will  be  found  a  marked  contrast  between  the 
manner  of  conversion  of  the  hardy  and  hardened 
adventurer,  and  of  the  gentle-hearted  poet.  But  in 
the  end  both  will  be  found  to  have  been  brought 
to  a  living  and  trustful  faith  in  the  same  Divine 
Saviour. 

Captain  James  Wilson  is  well  known  as  the  com- 
mander of  the  ship  Duff,  which  carried 
the  first  Christian  missionaries 
islands  of  the  Pacific  Ocean  in 
His  earlier  life  had  been  spent  in  battle  and  ad- 
venture in  America  and  India,  and  its  incidents 
read  more  like  the  wonders  of  fiction  than  a  literal 
detail  of  truth  and  fact.  The  history  of  his  attempt 
to  escape  from  one  of  the  prisons  of  Hyder  Ali,  and 
the  sufferings  to  which  he  was  subjected  for  two-and- 
twenty  months  after,  would  form  the  basis  of  a  startling 
tale  of  romance.  In  1794  he  returned  to  England, 
made  rich  by  one  fortunate  enterprise,  and  bought  an 
estate  in  Hampshire,  where  he  hoped  to  repair  his 
shattered  health,  and  to  enjoy  happiness  in  the  sports 
of  the  country  and  the  fashionable  society  of  the 
neighbourhood.  On  his  return-voyage  he  had  frequent 
discussions  on  religious  subjects  with  a  missionary  who 
was  on  board,  and  who  was  greatly  scandalized  at  his 
infidel  principles.  He  had  come  out  of  the  furnace  of 
suffering,  insensible  as  the  mill-stone  to  any  feelings  of 
gratitude  or  devotion,  and  his  mercies  had  no  better 
effect  than  his  afflictions.  He  saw  no  divine  hand  in 
the  providence  which  had  preserved  him  in  deaths 
oft, — in  hunger,  and  thirst,  and  nakedness, — in  jour- 
neying and  in  pi-isons, — in  perils  of  waters,  in  perils  in 
the  wilderness,  in  perils  by  the  heathen;  and  which, 


182  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

after  all  these  dangers,  had  crowned  his  mercantile 
pursuits  with  wealth  by  means  which  appeared  almost 
miraculous. 

Captain  Wilson's  infidelity,  his  biographer  says, 
may  be  ascribed  mainly  to  two  causes : — the  want  of  an 
early  and  scriptural  acquaintance  with  religion;  and 
his  residence  for  so  many  years  in  India,  "a  country 
which  has  proved  fatal  to  the  principles  of  Europeans, 
who,  making  wealth  the  sole  object  of  their  worship, 
prostrate  their  hearts  before  the  shrine  of  this  golden 
image,  with  a  more  unhallowed  devotion  than  if  they 
bent  the  knee  in  the  chambers  of  Asiatic  idolatry. 
His  mind  had  been  rendered  completely  callous  by  the 
events  and  occupations  of  his  life;  and  this  baneful 
influence  had  darkened  down  upon  his  faculties,  so  as 
to  obliterate  any  remains  of  religion  and  all  sense  of 
God's  moral  government  among  men.  Like  all  other 
disciples  of  deism,  he  entertained  lofty  conceptions  of 
human  nature,  and  was  deeply  imbued  with  a  self- 
complacent  admiration  of  his  own  goodness.  He  con- 
sidered that  he  had  so  conducted  himself  as  to  merit  the 
congratulations  of  the  world,  and  had  done  nothing  he 
could  reproach  himself  with  as  unjust  to  his  neighbour 
or  offensive  in  the  eye  of  God.  He  had  even  in  some 
instances  behaved  with  a  generosity  that  he  thought 
could  not  fail  to  secure  for  him  the  divine  approbation; 
and,  when  compared  with  others  of  his  countrymen  in 
that  part  of  the  world,  he  flattered  himself  he  ouglit 
rather  to  be  celebrated  as  a  man  of  exalted  virtue 
than  regarded  as  an  unbeliever  or  a  sinner.  Besides, 
his  man}'  wonderful  escapes,  his  singular  preservations, 
and,  above  all,  his  success  in  his  mercantile  engage- 
ments, which  had  raised  him  to  afiluence  after  being 
stripped  of  all  he  possessed,  led  him  proudly  to  imagine 


Wilson's  infidelity.  183 

that  he  was  not  onl}-  a  child  of  fortune,  but  in  special 
favour  with  the  Deit}"." 

"It  is  difficult  indeed  to  imagine  (says  his  biogra- 
pher) almost  any  thing  more  unlikely  than  that  the 
subjects  of  revelation  should  engage  or  interest  a 
mind  so  wrapped  up  in  the  flattering  oj)inions  of 
superior  worth  and  the  romantic  schemes  of  earthl}' 
happiness.  The  objections  must  have  appeared  to  him 
numerous  and  formidable  against  receiving  a  book  as 
a  revelation  from  God,  the  design  of  which  was  to 
teach  him  that  his  heart  was  deeply  depraved, — that 
he  had  been  a  rebel  through  life  against  his  Maker, — 
that  he  had  incurred  his  displeasure,  and  must  expect 
pardon  and  happiness  solely  through  the  unmerited 
mercy  of  Him  he  had  offended."  , 

Captain  Wilson  had  a  pious  niece  who  superintended 
his  household  affairs;  and,  though  he  regarded  her 
religion  as  a  weakness,  her  character  was  not  without 
some  influence  on  his  mind.  One  of  his  neighbours,  an 
old  sea-captain,  often  invited  his  attention  to  religion; 
but,  though  this  man  knew  his  Bible  well,  he  was  not 
sufficiently  acquainted  with  the  general  evidences  of 
Christianity  to  meet  the  reasonings  of  his  skeptical 
friend.  The  Indian  captain  proudly  defied  the  artil- 
lery of  his  denunciations  against  unbelievers,  and 
smiled  at  his  entreaties  to  abandon  the  ranks  of  skep- 
ticism. Occasionall}",  however,  and  at  intervals,  tran- 
sient conviction  would  strike  his  conscience,  like  the 
flashes  of  lightning  that  cross  the  path  of  tJie  benighted 
traveller.  He  would  sometimes  indulge  the  reflection, 
that,  if  Christianity  were  from  God,  his  plan  of  life 
was  altogether  wrong,  hisestimate  of  himself  erroneous, 
and  his  hopes  of  future  happiness  fallacious. 

At   the   table  of  the    old   sea-captain,   Mr.  AVilson 


184  THE    DTVINE    LIFE. 

met  the  Eev.  J.  Griffin,  of  Portsca,  and  the  authenti- 
city of  the  Sacred  Scriptures  became  the  topic  of  con- 
versation. The  host  pleasantly  remarked  that  he  had 
already  been  foiled  on  that  subject,  and  referred  the 
cause  to  his  young  friend  the  minister,  who  was  better 
able  to  maintain  the  contest  than  he  was.  But  the 
minister  politely  declined  what  might  seem  an  obtru- 
sion of  his  sentiments  on  the  company,  and  added  that 
he  thought  the  matter  too  serious  and  important  for 
the  occasion,  although  he  was  ready  at  all  times  to 
defend  the  truth,  according  to  the  best  of  his  abilities. 
Captain  Wilson  smiled  at  the  gravity  of  the  clergyman, 
and  observed  that  it  would  be  no  obtrusion.  "I 
assure  you,  sir,"  he  continued,  with  a  dogmatical  air, 
"I  am  glad<of  the  opportunity  to  converse  on  it;  for 
I  have  never  met  with  a  clergymen  yet — and  I  have 
conversed  with  several — that  I  could  not  foil  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour."  This  challenge  could  not  be 
declined;  and  when  the  party  broke  up,  the  two  com- 
batants, embracing  the  delightful  opportunity  which  a 
fine  evening  in  July  aiforded,  adjourned  to  a  shady 
bower  in  the  garden  to  debate  the  point,  whether 
Christianity  was  a  revelation  from  God. 

In  that  shady  bower  Mr.  Griffin  met  all  the  objec- 
tions of  his  new  acquaintance  to  the  rehgion  of  Christ, 
for  hours,  in  a  calm,  intelligent,  and  earnest  spirit. 
Step  by  step  they  advanced,  till  the  whole  field  of 
the  Christian  evidence  was  surveyed.  The  approach 
of  night  brought  the  discussion  to  a  close,  and  the 
minister  recommended  to  Captain  Wilson  such  books 
as  treated  on  the  subjects  they  had  been  discussing. 
"From  these,"  he  said,  "your  mind,  I  am  persuaded, 
will  receive  such  a  refulgency  of  evidence,  that  you 
will  as  readily  admit  the  divine  authenticity  of  the 


WILSON    IN    KARNKST.  185 

Scriptures  as  j'ou  do  that  light  is  the  medium  of  vision, 
or  that  life  is  the  cause  of  sensibility." 

The  imjDression  produced  on  Captain  AVilson's  mind 
b}"  this  conversation  did  not  amount  to  entire  conviction, 
but  he  was  thoroughly  aroused  to  consider  a  question 
which  he  was  now  prepared  to  admit  was  the  most  im- 
portant of  all.  For  da^^s  he  read  the  Scriptures  care- 
full}^,  and  when  the  Lord's  day  arrived,  he  offered  to 
drive  his  niece  to  her  place  of  worship,  a  distance  of 
ten  miles;  but  his  chief  object  was  to  hear  the  minister 
who  had  interested  him  so  deeply  by  his  defence  of 
Christianity.  The  simplicity  of  the  worship  and  the 
solemnity  of  the  congregation  impressed  him  much. 
''But,"  says  his  biographer,  "the  text  was  rather 
unfavourable  for  disarming  the  prejudices  of  one  who 
had  objected  to  the  mysterious  doctrines  of  Chris- 
tianity. It  was  taken  from  the  8th  of  Eomans,  and 
treated  of  the  subject  of  predestination, — a  subject 
wdiich,  in  whatever  view  it  is  taken,  is  not  unattended 
with  difficulties.  The  preacher,  who  naturally  felt 
anxious  when,  on  entering  the  pulpit,  he  perceived  an 
unexpected  hearer  in  his  late  adversary,  and  would 
gladl}^  have  changed  the  subject,  not  only  steered  wide 
of  any  thing  like  offensive  or  obnoxious  sentiments,  but 
illustrated  his  knotty  text  in  such  a  manner  that  the 
captain  ever  after  regarded  it  as  highly  instrumental 
in  his  conversion  to  God.  Notwithstanding  the  dark 
and  unpromising  theme,  the  doctrine  was  presented 
to  him  in  such  a  light  as  roused  his  soul  to  a  sense  of 
his  danger  and  constrained  him  to  seek  in  earnest  for 
pardoning  mercy  and  divine  teaching.  He  listened  to 
it  with  fixed  attention.  It  seemed  to  produce  a  con- 
flict of  feelings  in  his  breast,  like  what  we  may  conceive 
to  have  been  the  conflict  of  the  primary  elements  of 


186  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

nature  when  blended  in  chaos, — each  striving  to  ob- 
tain its  situation  and  influence  in  the  universe.  His 
memory,  reason,  conscience,  imagination,  and  passions, 
were  all  in  agitation.  His  prejudices  for  and  against 
the  doctrine,  his  hopes  and  fears,  his  love  and  hatred, 
raised  a  storm  in  his  soul  which  he  could  not  subdue ; 
for,  while  his  heart  rose  in  rebellion  against  the  sove- 
reignty of  God,  the  events  of  his  whole  life  appeared 
before  him  as  incontestable  evidences  of  its  truth. 
The  silent  tears  which  he  endeavoured  to  suppress, 
and  which  he  was  afraid  to  wipe  off  lest  he  should 
attract  notice,  excited  in  the  bosom  of  his  friend  feel- 
ings of  benevolent  and  sympathetic  joy." 

On  their  way  home.  Captain  Wilson  said  to  his 
niece,  "  If  what  I  have  heard  to-day  be  true,  I  am  a 
lost  man."  Eeason  and  conscience  urged  him  to  inves- 
tigate the  matter  patiently;  but  the  fear  of  enthusiasm, 
and  the  dread  of  becoming  an  object  of  ridicule,  deter- 
mined him  to  resist  the  cuiTcnt.  The  painful  remem- 
brance of  former  sins,  and  the  fearful  apprehensions 
of  futurity,  aggravated  this  internal  conflict.  He  now 
became  pensive  and  thoughtful;  the  Bible  and  religious 
books  formed  his  constant  and  almost  his  only  com- 
panions. He  attended  regularly  the  place  of  worship, 
joined  with  fervour  in  the  service,  and  seemed  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  inquiry,  "What  must  I  do  to  be  saved  ?" 
The  change  which  he  was  undergoing  attracted  the 
notice  of  the  gay  society  with  which  he  mingled,  and 
the  artillery  of  wit  which  he  had  often  poured  on 
others  now  returned  upon  himself  He  frequentl}^ 
tried  to  stem  the  torrent  by  argument;  at  other  times 
he  attempted  to  go  with  it,  by  joining  in  the  laugh 
till  it  had  spent  itself;  but  all  in  vain.  They  were 
resolved  either  to  rout  him  out  of  his  strange  notions. 


WILSON    A    CHRISTIAX.  187 

or  to  laugli  him  out  of  theii"  society;  but,  as  thc}'  could 
not  do  the  former,  they  gradually  accomplished  the 
other  by  breaking  off  the  connection. 

Captain  Wilson  gi"adually  ''obtained  such  a  firm 
persuasion  of  the  truth  of  revelation  as  to  declare  that 
nothing  in  the  world — not  even  Satan,  with  all  his 
l^rineipalities  and  powers — could  persuade  him  that 
the  Bible  was  not  the  word  of  the  Most  High;  neither 
could  an}"  thing  have  weaned  him  from  his  errors  so 
completely  as  that  px'ecious  volume  had  done."  "He 
perceived  that  the  sanctification  of  the  Spirit  forms  the 
evidence  of  our  meetness  for  heaven,  and  is  as  essen- 
tially necessary  to  salvation  as  an  interest  in  the 
justifj'ing  righteousness  of  Christ;  he  likewise  saw  that 
the  atonement  of  the  Eedeemer,  and  the  promises  of 
God,  constitute  the  foundation  of  our  hopes  of  accept- 
ance with  him.  On  this  basis  he  was  enabled  to  build 
the  superstructure  of  his  faith,  hope,  and  practice." 

The  retirement  of  Horndean  and  the  luxuries  of 
wealth  could  not  now  satisfy  the  mind  or  heart  of 
Captain  "Wilson.  He  was  in  all  the  vigour  of  man- 
hood :  what  could  he  do  for  the  honour  of  his  Saviour 
and  the  good  of  his  fellow-creatures  ?  The  devoted- 
ness  and  self-denial  of  the  worthies  recorded  in  the 
Epistle  to  the  Hebrews  filled  him  with  admiration. 
Was  his  faith  like  theirs  ?  Could  he  suffer  and  serve 
like  them,  and  give  up  all  for  Christ,  and  go  forth  at 
the  divine  bidding?  Circumstances  occurred  speedily 
which  brought  these  questions  to  a  practical  issue. 
The  London  Missionary  Society  was  formed,  and  it 
was  proposed  to  send  the  gospel  to  the  lately-discovei-ed 
islands  of  the  Southern  Pacific.  If  called  upon  to 
take  the  command  of  the  expedition,  .could  he  embark 
once  more  upon  the  deep,  not  in  quest  of  worldly  sub- 


1S8  THE    DTVINE    LIFE. 

stance,  but  to  carry  to  heathen  lands  treasures  more 
valuable  than  the  gold  of  nations  ?  He  felt  that  he 
could  do  it  with  pleasure;  his  faith  was  equal  to  the 
sacrifice;  he  could  quit  his  home,  encounter  the  perils 
of  the  ocean,  and  brave  all  the  dangers  and  difficulties 
to  which  such  an  enterprise  must  necessarily  expose 
him.  And  he  did  it.  On  the  10th  of  August,  1796, 
the  ship  Duff  sailed  from  the  river  Thames,  having  for 
her  flag  three  doves  argent,  on  a  purple  field,  bearing 
olive-branches  in  their  bills.  And  after  a  voyage  of 
five  months  the  missionaries  landed  at  Tahiti  on  the 
4th  of  March,  1797.  Thus  auspiciously  began  the 
glorious  enterprise  through  which  fifty  or  sixty  islands 
of  these  Southern  seas  have  already  cast  away  their 
idols  and  returned  to  the  living  and  true  God. 

"Who  would  have  looked,"  as  Dr.Haweis  says,  "for 
a  convert  in  a  haughty,  unprincipled  Indian  merchant, 
or  for  a  commander  of  a  Christian  mission  in  an  infidel 
sailor  chained  in  a  prison  at  Seringapatam  ?  Who 
could  expect  the  deist,  who  returned  from  India  con- 
tradicting the  faith  of  Christ  and  blaspheming  the 
cause  of  the  cross,  within  five  years  afterwards  on  the 
quarter-deck,  in  the  midst  of  prayer  and  praise,  carr}'^- 
ing  the  everlasting  gospel  to  the  isles  of  the  Pacific 
Ocean  ?  Yet  such  are  the  mysterious  ways  of  Provi- 
dence, such  the  irresistible  influence  of  truth,  and  such 
the  power  and  efficacy  of  Christian  princii^les." 


Henry  Kirke  White,  whose   name   is   associated 
with  all  that  is   beautiful  and    tender, 

Henry    Kirke 

White;      born     was  thc  SOU  of  a  Nottingham  butcher. 

March  21.  1785  j  ° 

died    Oct.    19.     Has  mother  was  endowed  with  the  best 

1806. 

qualities  of  a  pure  and  exalted  feminine 
character.     At  a  very  early  age  Henry's  love  of  read- 


HENRY   KIRKE    WHITE.  189 

ing  was  a  passion  to  which  every  thing  else  gave  way. 
He  was  only  in  the  fifteenth  year  of  his  age  when  he 
was  chosen  to  deliver  lectures  on  general  literature  to 
a  literary  society  of  which  he  was  a  member.  And  he 
soon  began  to  have  higher  aspirations,  and  to  cast  a 
wistful  eye  towards  the  universities.  But  at  this  time 
his  opinions  on  the  most  important  of  all  subjects  were 
skeptical:  they  inclined  towards  deism.  "It  need  not 
be  said  on  what  slight  grounds  the  opinions  of  a  youth 
must  needs  be  founded."  The  doubts  of  Henry  Kirke 
White  w^ere,  perhaps,  nothing  more  than  the  natural 
questionings  of  an  active  and  restless  mind  that  has 
not  been  chastened  by  discipline  nor  matured  by  re- 
flection and  knowledge.  Our  information  respecting 
them  is  very  scanty.  But  in  the  history  of  his  de- 
liverance from  them  we  see  less  into  his  mind  than 
into  his  heart;  less  of  the  process  by  which  his  under- 
standing was  satisfied  than  of  the  awakening  and 
quickening  of  his  soul.  The  statement  of  his  biogra- 
pher is,  in  substance,  the  following  : — 

At  the  time  when  Henry  doubted  the  truth  of 
Christianity,  it  so  happened  that  one  of  his  earliest  and 
most  intimate  friends,  Mr.  Almond,  was  accidentally 
present  at  a  death-bed,  and  was  so  struck  with  what 
he  then  saw  of  the  power  and  influence  and  inestimable 
value  of  religion,  that  he  formed  a  firm  determination 
to  renounce  all  such  pursuits  as  were  not  strictly  com- 
patible with  it.  That  he  might  not  be  shaken  in  this 
resolution,  he  withdrew  from  the  society  of  all  those 
persons  whose  ridicule  or  censure  he  feared;  and  was 
particularl}'^  careful  to  avoid  Henry,  of  whose  raillery 
he  stood  most  in  dread.  He  anxiously  shunned  him, 
therefore,  till  Henry,  who  w^ould  not  sufter  an  intimacy 
of  long  standing  to  be  broken  off  he  knew  not  why. 


190  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

called  upon  his  friend,  and  desired  to  know  the  cause 
of  this  unaccountable  conduct  towards  himself  and 
their  common  acquaintance. 

Mr.  Almond,  who  had  received  him  with  trembling 
and  reluctance,  replied  to  this  expostulation,  that  a 
total  change  had  been  effected  in  his  religious  views, 
and  that  he  was  prepared  to  defend  his  opinions  and 
conduct,  if  Henry  would  allow  the  Bible  to  be  the 
word  of  truth  and  the  standard  of  appeal.  Upon  this, 
Henry  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  strong  emotion,  "Good 
God !  you  surely  regard  me  in  a  worse  light  than  I 
deserve  !"  His  friend  proceeded  to  say,  that  what  he 
had  said  was  from  a  conviction  that  they  had  no  com- 
mon ground  on  which  to  contend,  Henry  having  more 
than  once  suggested  that  the  book  of  Isaiah  was  an 
epic,  and  that  of  Job  a  dramatic,  poem.  He  then  stated 
what  the  change  was  which  had  taken  place  in  his 
own  views  and  intentions,  and  the  motives  for  his 
present  conduct.  From  the  manner  in  which  Henry 
listened,  it  became  evident  that  his  mind  was  ill  at 
ease,  and  that  he  was  noway  satisfied  with  himself 
His  fx'iend,  therefore,  who  had  exjoected  to  be  assailed 
in  a  tone  of  triumphant  superiority  by  one  in  the 
pride  and  youthful  confidence  of  great  intellectual 
powers,  and,  as  yet,  ignorant  of  his  own  ignorance, 
found  himself  unexpectedly  called  upon  to  act  the 
monitor;  and,  putting  into  his  hands  Scott's  "Force 
of  Truth,"  which  was  lying  on  the  table,  entreated 
him  to  take  it  with  him  and  peruse  it  at  his  leisure. 

That  which  first  made  Henry  dissatisfied  with  the 
creed  he  had  adopted,  and  the  standard  of  practice 
which  he  had  set  up  for  himself,  was,  he  informed  a 
friend  afterwards,  the  purity  of  mind  which  he  perceived 
was  everywhere  inculcated  in  the  Holy  Scriptures  and 


CONSCIENCE    AWAKENED.  191 

required  of  every  one  "who  would  become  a  successful 
candidate  for  future  blessedness."  '''He  had  supposed 
that  morality  of  conduct  was  all  the  purity  required; 
but  when  he  observed  that  purity  of  the  very  thoughts 
and  intentions  of  the  soul  also  was  requisite,  he  was 
convinced  of  his  deficiencies."  These  are  the  words 
of  his  friend.  His  own  would,  no  doubt,  have  been 
stronger,  and  would  have  breathed  more  of  the  spirit 
of  Him  who  said,  "The  law  is  holy,  and  the  command- 
ment  holy,    and  just,   and   good But   I   am 

carnal,  sold  under  sin Oh,  wretched  man  that 

lam!  who  shall  deliver  me  from  the  body  of  this 
death  ?" 

Southey  says  that  Scott's  "Force  of  Truth"  pro- 
duced little  effect  on  Henry's  mind,  and  was  returned 
with  disapprobation.  "Men  differ,"  he  adds,  "as 
much  in  mind  as  in  countenance:  some  are  to  be 
awakened  by  passionate  exhortation  or  vehement  re- 
jjroof,  appealing  to  their  fears  and  exciting  their 
imagination;  others  yield  to  force  of  argument,  or, 
upon  slow  inquiry,  to  the  accumulation  of  historical 
testimony  and  moral  proofs;  there  are  others  in 
whom  the  innate  principle  of  our  nature  retains  more 
of  its  original  strength,  and  these  are  led  by  their 
inward  monitor  into  the  way  of  peace.  Henry  was 
of  this  class."  AVhich,  being  interpreted,  must 
mean  that  Henry  Kirke  White  was  constitutionally 
more  likely  to  be  delivered  from  skepticism  by  an 
appeal  to  his  heart  and  conscience  than  by  the  slow 
process  of  argument  and  historical  proof.  "His 
intellect  might  have  been  on  the  watch  to  detect  a 
flaw  in  evidence,  a  defective  argument,  or  an  illogical 
inference;  but  in  his  heart  he  felt  that  there  is  no 
happiness,  no  rest,  without  religion;  and  in  him  who 


192  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

becoTnes  willing  to  believe,  the  root  of  infidelity  is 
destroyed." 

At  the  same  time  this  youthful  inquirer  derived 
benefit  from  books  which  appealed  to  his  intellect 
rather  than  to  his  heart,  and  which  helj^ed  to  remove 
speculative  difficulties.  We  find  him  writing  to  a 
friend  in  August,  1801,  in  acknowledgment  of  a  book 
on  the  Trinity,  from  which  he  "received  much  gratifica- 
tion and  edification."  "Eeligious  polemics,"  he  wrote, 
''have  seldom  formed  a  part  of  my  studies,  though 
whenever  I  happened  accidentally  to  turn  my  thoughts 
to  the  subject  of  the  Protestant  doctrine  of  the  God- 
head, and  compared  it  with  the  Arian  and  Socinian, 
many  doubts  interfered,  and  I  even  began  to  think 
that  the  more  widely  the  subject  was  investigated  the 
more  j^erplexed  it  would  ajjpear,  and  was  on  the  point 
of  forming  a  resolution  to  go  to  heaven  in  my  own  way, 
without  meddling  or  involving  myself  in  the  inextri- 
cable labyrinth  of  controversial  dispute,  when  I  re- 
ceived and  perused  this  excellent  treatise,  which 
finally  cleared  up  the  mists  which  my  ignorance  had 
conjured  around  me,  and  clearly  pointed  out  the  real 
truth." 

The  date  of  Henry  Kirke  White's  salutary  inter- 
course with  his  friend  Almond  has  not  been  recorded, 
but  it  was  probably  later  than  the  date  of  his  letter. 
His  breast  was,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  the  chaos  of 
all  contradiction," — now  religious,  now  deistic,  "now 
moody  and  sad,  now  unthinking  and  gay."  But 
Mr.  Almond's  conversion  was  the  means  of  a  spiritual 
crisis  in  young  White,  which  issued,  happily,  in  his 
conversion  likewise.  Mr.  Almond  was  about  to  enter 
Cambridge.  On  the  evening  before  his  departure  for 
the  university,  Henry  requested  that  ho  would  accom- 


BEAUTli'UL    CHARACTER.  193 

pany  him  to  the  little  room  which  was  called  his 
study.  "  We  had  no  sooner  entered/'  says  Mr. 
Almond,  "than  he  burst  into  tears,  and  declared  that 
his  anguish  of  mind  was  insupportable.  He  entreated 
that  I  would  kneel  down  and  pray  for  him;  and  most 
cordially  were  our  tears  and  supplications  mingled  at 
that  interesting  moment.  When  1  took  my  leave,  he 
exclaimed,  'What  must  I  do?  You  are  the  only 
friend  to  whom  I  can  apply  in  this  agonizing  state, 
and  you  are  about  to  leave  me.  My  literary  associates 
are  all  inclined  to  deism :  I  have  no  one  with  whom 
I  can  communicate.'" 

The  history  of  his  heart's  progress  after  the  de- 
parture of  his  friend  has  not  been  written.  But 
we  know  the  spiritual  condition  in  which  it  issued. 

Piety  "was  in  him  a  living  and  quickening  principle 
of  goodness,  which  sanctified  all  his  hopes  and  all  his 
affections.  .  .  .  There  never  existed  a  more  dutiful 
son,  a  more  affectionate  brother,  a  warmer  friend,  nor 
a  devouter  Christian."  In  his  statement  of  reasons 
for  wishing  to  enter  into  the  ministry,  we  see  what 
those  views  of  truth  were  which  produced  this  beautiful 
character.  "  Since  the  time  I  was  awakened  to  a  true 
sense  of  religion,  I  have  always  felt  a  strong  desire  to 
become  useful  in  the  church  of  Christ;  a  desire  which 
has  increased  daily,  and  which  it  has  been  my  suppli- 
cation might  be  from  God.  It  is  true,  before  I  began 
to  be  solicitous  about  spiritual  things,  I  had  a  wish  to 
become  a  clergyman;  but  that  was  very  different. 
I  trust  I  may  now  say,  that  I  would  be  a  minister, 
that  I  may  do  good;  and,  although  I  am  sensible  of 
the  awful  importance  of  the  pastoral  charge,  I  would 
sacrifice  every  thing  for  it,  in  the  hope  that  I  should 
be  strengthened  faithfully  to  discharge  the  duties  of 
13 


194  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

that  sacred  office.  I  think  I  have  no  other  reason  to 
offer  but  this : — the  hope  of  being  an  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  God  to  the  promotion  of  his  glory  is  my 
chief  motive.  With  regard  to  the  doctrines  of  the 
church  contained  in  the  articles,  I  conceive  them  to 
be  strictly  formed  upon  the  gospel,  as  setting  forth 
salvation  through  the  blood  of  Jesus  Christ  alone; 
the  original  depravity  of  man,  whereby  he  is  rendered 
utterly  unfit  for  every  good  thing,  and  dead  to  the 
light  of  truth,  until  he  is  renewed  and  born  again  in 
the  Holy  Spirit  by  the  free  grace  of  God;  and  as 
teaching  that  no  man  can  claim  acceptance  on  account 
of  his  works,  because,  being  ourselves  incapable  of 
doing  good,  they  spring  from  the  grace  of  God,  and  to 
Mm,  therefore,  must  be  assigned;  but  that  they  are 
the  fruits  and  testimony  of  sound  faith." 

The  mental  conflicts  through  which  the  youthful 
poet  passed  in  his  transition  from  skepticism  to  a 
living  faith  in  Christ  have  been  recorded  in  his  well- 
known  ''Star  of  Bethlehem." 


'Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud — the  night  was  darls.- 


"Deep  horror  then  ray  vitals  froze; 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 
When  suddenly  a  star  arose : 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

"It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all; 
It  bade  my  dark  foreboding  cease; 
And  through  the  storm  and  danger's  thrall 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

"Now  safely  moor'd,  my  perils  o'er, 
I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 
Forever  and  for  evermore. 
The  Star,  the  Star  of  Bethlehem." 


CONSTITUTIONAL   DIFFERENCES.  195 

Constitutional  mental  differences  diversify  the  pro- 
cess of  conversion,  and  stamp  themselves 

'  '-  .  1        1  Seventh  Class. 

on  the  permanent  character  of  individuals,     constitutional 

J-  _      _  differences. 

So  likewise  do  national  characteristics. 

The  imaginative  Oriental  and  the  matter-of-fact 
Western,  the  strong-minded  Saxon  and  the  sensitive 
negro,  do  not  lose  their  individuality,  hut  have  it 
sanctified  and  ennobled.  A  popular  writer,  after 
describing  her  here  as  "enjoying  (slave  though  he 
was)  with  a  quiet  joy,  the  birds,  the  flowers,  the  foun- 
tains, the  light  and  beauty"  of  the  scene  amidst  which 
he  dwelt,  remarks,  "If  ever  Africa  shall  show  an 
elevated  and  cultivated  race, — and  come  it  must,  some 
time,  her  turn  to  figure  in  the  great  drama  of  human 
improvemicnt, — life  will  awake  there  with  a  gorgeous- 
ness  and  splendour  of  which  our  cold  Western  [or 
Northern]  tribes  faintly  have  conceived.  In  that  far- 
off  mystic  land  of  gold,  and  gems,  and  spices,  and 
waving  palms,  and  wondrous  flowers,  and  miraculous 
fertility,  will  awake  new  forms  of  art,  new  styles  of 
splendour;  and  the  negro  race,  no  longer  despised  and 
trodden  down,  will,  perhaps,  show  forth  some  of  the 
latest  and  most  magnificent  revelations  of  human  life. 
Certainly  they  will,  in  their  gentleness,  their  lowly 
docility  of  heart,  their  aptitude  to  repose  on  a  superior 
mind  and  rest  on  a  higher  power,  their  childlike  sim- 
plicity of  affection  and  facility  of  forgiveness, — in  all 
these  they  will  exhibit  the  highest  form  of  the  pecu- 
liarly Christian  life;  and  perhaps,  as  God  chasteneth 
whom  he  loveth,  he  has  chosen  poor  Africa  in  the 
furnace  of  aflliction,  to  make  her  the  highest  and 
noblest  in  that  kingdom  which  he  will  set  up  Avhen 
every  other  kingdom  has  been  tried  and  failed;  for  the 
first  shall  be  last,  and  the  last  first." 


196  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

We  shall  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  individual 
and  national  peculiarities  show  themselves  amid  the 
operations  of  divine  truth,  modifying  the  manner  of 
its  action  on  the  human  soul,  and  ultimately  modify- 
ing the  character  which  it  produces,  when  we  remem- 
ber that  even  the  inspiration  which  pervades  Holy 
Scripture  does  not  override  the  original  differences  of 
the  writers,  and  either  bring  down  or  elevate  them  all 
to  a  common  standard.  We  cannot  read  their  books 
without  observing  how  much  their  modes  of  reasoning 
and  their  style  have  been  influenced  by  their  habits, 
their  condition  in  life,  their  genius,  their  education, 
their  recollections, — all  the  circumstances,  in  short, 
that  have  acted  upon  their  outer  and  inner  man. 
''They  tell  us  what  they  saw,  and  just  as  they  saw  it," 
says  Gaussen.  "Their  memory  is  put  into  requisi- 
tion, their  imagination  is  called  into  exercise,  their 
affections  are  drawn  out,  and  their  moral  physiognomy 
is  clearly  delineated."  We  are  sensible  that  the  com- 
position of  each  has  greatly  depended  on  its  author's 
circumstances  and  peculiar  habits  of  mind.  "Here  is 
the  phraseology,  the  tone,  the  accent  of  a  Moses; 
there  of  a  John;  here  of  an  Isaiah;  there  of  an 
Amos;  here  of  a  Daniel  or  of  a  Peter;  there  of  a 
Nehemiah;  there,  again,  of  a  Paul."  But,  with  all 
their  diversities,  they  all  spoke  as  they  were  moved 
by  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  the  entire  body  of  their  wri- 
tings is  declared  to  have  been  given  by  inspiration  of 
God. 

If,  in  inspiration,  individual  varieties  were  not  over- 
borne by  the  mighty  afflatus  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  much 
less  may  we  expect  to  find  it  so  in  the  soul's  conver- 
sion from  sin  to  holiness.  "There  is  in  the  constitu- 
tion of  men,"  says  Dr.  Tholuck,  "either  great  power 


DIVERSITIES    SANCTIFIED.  197 

of  feeling  and  power  of  action;  or  a  predominant 
power  of  feeling,  with  but  little  power  of  action;  or 
a  predominant  power  of  action,  with  but  little  power 
of  feehng;  or  an  equally  small  degree  of  both."  There 
is  thus  a  foundation  in  nature  for  the  classification  of 
human  temperaments  into  the  choleric,  the  melancho- 
lic, the  sanguine,  the  phlegmatic.  "  The  choleric  tem- 
perament inclines  its  possessor  to  outward  activity,  the 
melancholic  to  inward,  the  sanguine  to  enjoyment,  the 
phlegmatic  to  rest."  These  varieties  are  greatly  in- 
creased by  combination  and  mixture.  And  it  is  the 
gloiy  of  the  gospel  not  to  destroy  but  to  sanctify  them. 
It  adapts  itself  to  the  man  of  a  cold,  mathematical  un- 
derstanding, and  to  the  man  of  a  warm,  poetic  heart; 
to  the  man  of  feeble  intellect,  who,  like  "poor  Joseph," 
can  just  understand  that  Christ  died  for  sinners,  and 
draw  the  inference,  ''Why  not,  then,  for  poor 
Joseph?"  and  the  man  of  mighty  intellect,  who,  like 
Jonathan  Edwards,  can  seize  the  greatest  problems 
with  a  giant's  grasp.  The  diversity  of  its  action  in 
such  dissimilar  cases  as  those  of  Saul  of  Tarsus  and 
Caroline  Fry,  John  Urquhart  and  John  Bunyan,  Captain 
James  Wilson  and  Henry  Kirke  White,  cannot  have 
escaped  the  reader's  attention.  Two  additional  exam- 
ples will  now  be  given;  the  one  that  of  a  man  whose 
writings  have  long  held  a  first  place  among  the  loftiest 
products  of  the  human  mind, — the  other  that  of  a  lady 
whose  writings  have  only  recently  become  known  in 
England,  and  whose  biography  reveals  a  heart  of  the 
most  delicate  sensitiveness.  The  gospel  met  the 
wants  of  the  great  mind  of  the  one  and  of  the  tender 
heart  of  the  other,  and  in  its  operation  we  can  trace 
the  constitutional  differences  which  it  does  not  over- 
bear, but  hallow  to  the  glory  of  God. 


198  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

The  name  of  Jonathan  Edwards  occupies  one  of 
the   first,    if  not  the   very  first,   place 

Jonathan    Ed-  ,  ,  „    , 

■wards;  born  among  the  masters  of  human  reason, 
tiout;'  died"^in  And  this  position  he  has  attained  in 
spite  of  great  disadvantages.  He  was 
''born  in  an  obscure  colony,  in  the  midst  of  a  wilder- 
ness, and  passed  the  better  part  of  his  life  as  the 
pastor  of  a  frontier-village,  and  the  residue  as  a 
missionary  in  a  still  humbler  hamlet."  His  writings 
were  not  addressed  to  the  learned  and  philosophic, 
but  to  the  narrow  circle  of  a  few  colonial  congrega- 
tions; and  their  style,  instead  of  being  adorned  with 
the  graces  of  imagination,  is  usually  most  bald  and 
repulsive.  "Under  such  circumstances,"  says  a  dis- 
tinguished essayist,  "nothing  but  transcendent  great- 
ness could  have  subdued  the  disgust  which  the  jjride 
of  philosophy  would  necessarily  feel  at  the  peculiarities 
of  his  religious  opinions,  or  with  which  a  sensitive 
taste  would  recoil  from  the  hideous  deformities  of  his 
style.  Yet  his  gigantic  force  of  intellect,  and  that 
alone,  has  not  merely  redeemed  his  writings  from 
obscurity,  but  attracted  the  attention  not  only  of 
many  of  the  wisest  but  the  most  polished  of  mankind. 
Like  Paul  at  Athens,  he  has  compelled  even  the  Stoics 
and  Ejiicureans  to  listen  to  him  by  the  dej)th  and 
originality  of  his  speculations."  It  will  be  interesting 
to  observe  how  this  great  mind,  at  once  j)rofoundly 
intellectual  and  deeply  emotional,  was  aflected  by  the 
entrance  of  divine  truth,  and  in  what  manner  his 
mental  constitution  moulded  his  exj)erience  of  its 
power. 

The  parents  of  Jonathan  Edwards  possessed  the 
virtues  of  the  Puritans  in  a  high  degree.  In  the  mar- 
tyr-spirit of  the  pilgrim  fathers,  their  highest  ambition 


JONATHAN    EDWARDS.  199 

•was  to  train  their  only  son  for  God.  And  their  devo- 
tion reaped  its  reward  while  he  was  yet  a  child.  Deep 
and  frequent,  and  of  long  continuance,  were  his 
impressions  of  religion. 

He  was  only  seven  or  eight  years  old  when,  with 
two  companions  of  his  own  age,  he  erected  a  booth  for 
an  oratory  in  a  retii'ed  spot  in  a  swamp.  And  amidst 
the  solemn  majesty  of  the  primeval  forest  did  the 
three  children  address  their  prayers  and  praises  to 
the  Great  Spirit,  their  Father  in  heaven.  But,  not 
oppressed  by  the  gloomy  grandeur  of  the  scene  around 
them,  their  devotions  were  cheerful  and  happy.  How 
far  they  were  enlightened  and  imbued  with  the 
evangelical  elements  of  contrition  and  simple-hearted 
reliance  on  the  Saviour  of  sinners,  it  is  perhaps 
impossible  to  say.  His  own  later  judgment  on  his 
state  at  this  time  may  have  been  correct.  "I  ex- 
perienced I  know  not  what  kind  of  delight  in  reli- 
gion. My  mind  was  much  engaged  in  it,  and  had 
much  self-righteous  pleasure,  and  it  was  my  delight 

to  abound   in    religious   duties My  affections 

seemed  to  be  lively  and  easily  moved,  and  I  seemed  to 
be  in  my  element  when  I  engaged  in  religious  duties. 
And  I  am  ready  to  think  many  are  deceived  with  such 
affections,  and  such  a  kind  of  delight  as  I  then  had  in 
religion,  and  mistake  it  for  grace." 

In  progress  of  time,  he  tells  us,  his  convictions  and 
affections  wore  off,  and  he  "went  on  in  the  ways  of 
sin."  A  purer  and  lovelier  life,  externally,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  than  was  his.  But  he  judged  rightly 
in  characterizing  a  course  of  life  of  which  God  is 
not  the  Alpha  and  Omega,  as  "the  way  of  sin." 

The  decay  of  interest  in  religion  during  the  earlier 
part  of  his  college  life  is  easily  accounted  for      He 


200  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

was  only  twelve  years  of  age  when  he  entered  Yale 
College,  and  before  he  was  fourteen  the  strength  and 
the  peculiar  bias  of  his  mind  were  developed,  and  he 
revelled  in  the  study  of  mental  philosophy  as  in  the 
richest  luxury.  In  the  perusal  of  ''Locke  on  the 
Human  Understanding"  he  enjoyed  ''a  far  higher 
pleasure  than  the  most  greedy  miser  finds  when 
gathering  up  handfuls  of  silver  and  gold  fi-om  some 
newly-discovered  treasure."  Between  these  studies 
and  the  fresh  and  living  power  of  religion  in  the  heai-t 
there  is  no  natural  or  necessary  contrariety.  But, 
through  human  infirmity,  the  most  lawful  pursuit, 
especially  if  it  be  of  an  intensely-engrossing  nature, 
possesses  an  ''  expulsive  power"  by  which  more  import- 
ant concerns  are  for  a  time  driven  from  the  soul. 
Jonathan  Edwards  was  awakened  from  his  spiritual 
slumber  by  severe  illness.  And  now  he  gave  himself 
afresh,  with  all  the  earnestness  of  his  great  mind,  to 
"  seek  salvation,"  but  without  that  kind  of  affection 
and  delight  which  he  had  formerly  experienced.  His 
"  inward  struggles"  were  many  and  varied.  The  idea 
of  the  sovereignty  of  God  in  the  exercise  of  mercy  had 
been  repulsive  to  him  from  childhood,  and  now  his 
soul  rose  in  rebellion  against  it.  By  degrees,  however, 
he  learned  to  regard  it  not  with  submission  merely, 
but  with  delight.  "  The  first  instance  of  inward  sweet 
delight  in  God  and  in  divine  things"  was  in  reading 
the  doxology, — "  Now  unto  the  King  eternal,  immortal, 
invisible,  the  only  wise  God,  be  honour  and  glory  for- 
ever and  ever."  "As  I  read  the  words,"  he  says, 
"  there  came  into  my  soul,  and  was  as  it  Avere  diftused 
through  it,  a  sense  of  the  glory  of  the  divine  King, — a 
new  sense,  quite  different  from  any  thing  I  ever  exj)e- 
rienced   before.     From   about  that  time  I  began  to 


FAITH   AND   JOY.  201 

have  a  new  kind  of  apprehension  and  idea  of  Christ 
and  the  work  of  redemption,  and  the  glorious  way  of 
salvation  by  him.  An  inward  sweet  sense  of  these 
things  at  times  came  into  my  heart,  and  my  soul  was 
led  away  in  pleasant  views  and  contemplations  of 
them.  And  my  mind  was  greatly  engaged  to  spend 
my  time  in  reading  and  meditating  on  Christ,  on  the 
beauty  and  excellency  of  his  person,  and  the  lovely 
way  of  salvation  by  free  grace  in  him."  If  the  child's 
delight  in  God  was  "  self-righteous,"  if  it  was  self- 
complacent,  or  consisted  in  mere  pleasurable  emotions, 
the  young  man's  delight  was  of  a  different  order.  He 
now  knew  himself,  ai\d  was  humbled  before  God,  and 
contemplated  with  "  a  joy  that  was  unspeakable"  the 
glory  of  God  as  revealed  in  the  mediatorial  work  of 
his  Son.  Here  his  whole  nature  found  rest ;  and  the 
result  was  characteristic  of  the  constitutional  grandeur 
of  his  intellect.  Walking  abroad  alone  in  a  solitary 
place,  "and  looking  upon  the  sky  and  clouds,  there 
came  into  my  mind,"  he  says,  "  so  sweet  a  sense  of 
the  glorious  majesty  and  grace  of  God,  as  I  know  not 
how  to  exj)res8.  I  seemed  to  see  them  both  in  a  sweet 
conjunction;  majesty  and  meekness  joined  together: 
it  was  a  sweet,  and  gentle,  and  holy  majesty;  and  also 
a  majestic  meekness,  an  awful  sweetness,  a  high,  and 
great,  and  holy  gentleness.  After  this  the  appearance 
of  every  thing  was  altered ;  there  seemed  to  be,  as  it 
were,  a  calm,  sweet  cast,  or  appearance,  of  divine  glory 
in  almost  every  thing.  God's  excellency,  his  wisdom, 
his  purity  and  love,  seemed  to  apj)ear  in  every 
thing;  in  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars;  in  the  clouds 
and  blue  sky;  in  the  grass,  flowers,  trees;  in  the 
water,  and  all  nature;  which  used  greatly  to  fix  my 
mind." 


202  THE   DIVINE  LIFE. 

The  very  thunders  and  lightnings  of  heaven  seemed 
to  change  their  character.  Formerly  nothing  had 
been  so  full  of  terror  to  him.  The  approach  of  a 
thunder-storm  used  to  fill  him  with  dread;  now  he 
saw  it  with  joy,  and  went  forth  into  the  fields  to 
watch  the  thunder-cloud  and  the  lightning's  flash, 
which  only  led  him  to  "  sweet  contemplations  of  the 
great  and  glorious  God."  "While  thus  engaged," 
he  says,  "it  always  seemed  natural  for  me  to  sing  or 
chant  forth  my  meditations,  or  to  speak  my  thoughts 
in  soliloquies  with  a  singing  voice." 

These  statements  will  recall  to  many  readers  a  fact 
in  the  early  history  of  Dr.  Chalmers.  "  I  remember," 
we  find  him  saying  in  a  letter,  "when  a  student  of 
divinity,  and  long  ere  I  could  relish  evangelical  senti- 
ments, I  spent  nearly  a  twelvemonth  in  a  sort  of 
mental  elysium;  and  the  one  idea  which  ministered  to 
my  soul  all  its  rapture  was  the  magnificence  of  the 
Godhead,  and  the  universal  subordination  of  all  things 
to  the  one  great  pui-pose  for  which  he  evolved  and 
was  supporting  creation." 

The  profound  work  of  Jonathan  Edwards  on  the 
Will  was,  in  part,  the  occasion  of  this  elevation  of  soul. 
By  its  perusal,  young  Chalmers  "  rose  to  the  sublime 
conception  of  the  Godhead,  as  that  eternal,  all-pervad- 
ing energy  by  which  the  vast  and  firmly-knit  succession 
of  events  in  both  the  spiritual  and  material  universe 
was  originated  and  sustained;  and  into  a  very  rapture 
of  admiration  and  delight  his  spirit  was  upborne."  Not 
a  single  hour  elapsed,  during  this  singular  pei'iod  of 
Dr.  Chalmers's  mental  history,  in  which  the  overpower- 
ingly-impressive  imagination  did  not  stand  bright 
before  the  inward  eye.  And  his  custom  was  to  wander 
early  in  the  morning  into  the  country,  that,  amid  the 


CHALMERS   AND   EDWARDS.  203 

quiet   scenes  of  nature,  he   might   luxuriate   in   the 
glorious  conception. 

In  some  respects  similar,  yet  essentially  dissimilar, 
were  these  states  of  mind  of  Chalmers  and  Edwards. 
The  one  idea  which  filled  Chalmers's  soul  with  emotion 
was  intellectual, — the  magnificence  of  the  Godhead. 
The  idea  which  filled  the  soul  of  Edwards  was  moral, 
— the  glorious  holiness  of  the  Godhead.  And  the  dif- 
ference had  its  root  in  essentially-different  states  of 
heart.  Chalmers,  at  the  period  referred  to,  was  en- 
tirely destitute  of  any  thing  distinctively  Christian. 
His  system  of  religion  did  not  go  beyond  sublime 
ideas  of  the  divine  omnipresence,  omnipotence,  om- 
niscience, and  goodness,  and  the  grandeur,  extent, 
and  variety  of  God's  works,  combined  with  some 
lively  conceptions  of  the  character,  the  teaching,  and 
the  example  of  the  Author  of  Christianity.  And, 
looking  back  to  this  period  twenty-four  years  after, 
he  said,  "Oh  that  God  possessed  me  with  a  sense 
of  his  holiness  and  love,  as  he  at  one  time  possessed 
me  with  a  sense  of  his  greatness  and  his  power  and 
his  pervading  energy  I"  The  religion  of  Chalmers  in 
his  youth  was  the  religion  of  the  imagination  alone. 
It  had  no  elements  of  permanence,  no  power  to  renew 
the  heart.  And  the  magnificent  vision  that  so  en- 
raptured the  young  philosopher  soon  vanished  away. 
Edwards,  on  the  contrary,  had  so  learned  Christ  as 
to  regard  him  as  the  one  Mediator,  the  way,  the 
truth,  and  the  life.  He  was  deeply  contrite  and 
humbled  before  God,  and  was  enlightened  to  see  the 
gloriousness  of  the  way  of  justification  through  the 
righteousness  of  Christ.  In  reference  to  the  very 
period  when,  year  after  year,  he  sought  the  soKtude 
of  the  woods  for  the  utterance  of  his   overflowing 


204  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

emotion,  he  said,  ''I  had  vehement  longings  of  soul 
after  God  and  Christ,  and  after  more  holiness,  where- 
with my  heart  seemed  to  be  full  and  ready  to  break ; 
which  often  brought  to  mind  the  words  of  the 
Psalmist,  'My  soul  breaketh  for  the  longing  it  hath.' 
I  often  felt  a  mourning  and  lamenting  in  my  heart 
that  I  had  not  turned  to  God  sooner,  that  I  might 
have  had  more  time  to  grow  in  grace." 

Mrs.   Stuart  Phelps*  inherited  the  natural  tem- 
perament and  many  other  peculiarities 

Elizabeth  Stu-  „     ,  •'■ 

art  Phelps;  born     of  her  father,  Professor  Moses  Stuart. 

Aug.     13,     1815;  1  •  ^1 

died   Nov.   30,     'Ihepredommance  of  her  nervous  svstem 

1852.  "^ 

over  every  other  part  of  her  physical 
nature  gave  an  early  and  positive  development  to  all 
her  natural  tastes.  The  movements  of  her  mind  were 
rapid  and  strongly  marked,  and  yet  accompanied  with 
great  and  often  excessive  delicacy  of  sensibility.  Her 
temperament  favoured  the  formation  of  a  vigorous 
yet  feminine  character. 

Elizabeth  Stuart  possessed  in  early  life  a  taste  for 
music,  and  through  life  was  often  dependent  on  its 
power  to  soothe  her  agitated  mind  or  to  elevate  her 
depressed  spirits.  Her  imagination  often  disturbed 
her  sleep  with  dreams  of  harmony,  from  which  she 
would  awake  in  tears,  and  which  she  could  not  de- 
scribe but  in  terms  of  rapture.  She  was  passionately 
fond  of  painting  and  statuary ;  and  her  taste  for  the 
fine  arts  had  mellowed  and  refined  her  character 
before  she  seemed  to  herself  to  possess  any  religious 
principle.     Yery  nearly  allied  with  it  in  lier  nature 

*  Well  known  as  a  writer  under  the  assumed  cognomen  of  "  H.  Tnista."  In  this 
sketch  of  her  Christian  experience  we  make  free  use  of  the  exquisite  memorial  of 
her  by  her  husband. 


MRS.  STUART    PHELPS.  205 

was  her  nice  sense  of  honour.  She  manifested  this 
early  and  always.  By  nature  her  conscience  found 
its  most  frequent  if  not  its  strongest  development  in 
a  regard  for  the  honourable  and  magnanimous.  And 
it  was  often  fascinating  to  observe  the  childlike  art- 
lessness  with  which  she  would  attribute  to  others 
honourable  motives  of  actions,  the  interpretation  of 
which,  as  the  world  would  give  it,  she  seemed  unable 
to  understand. 

Her  natural  tetmperament  was  not  well  fitted  to 
produce  a  life  of  equable  enjoyment.  Even  in  child- 
hood she  seems  to  have  been  subject  to  fluctuations 
of  hope  and  despondency.  She  lived  in  a  world  of 
emotion.  She  describes  herself  as  having  been  by 
nature  wild  and  wayward,  and  impetuous  in  her 
ieelings,  yet  too  sensitive  to  utter  them  to  any 
human  being.  An  instinct  which  she  could  not  resist 
impelled  her  to  hold  herself  in  reserve  from  her  near- 
est friends.  And  so  far  as  concerns  the  expression 
of  her  inner  life,  she  passed  the  early  periods  of  her 
youth  in  a  solitude  which  is  not  very  common  even  to 
sensitive  natures.  This  she  afterwards  regarded  as 
a  great  misfortune,  especially  in  its  effects  upon  her 
subsequent  religious  experience  :  it  seemed  to  her  the 
occasion  of  irrej)arable  evils.  As  might  have  been 
expected,  her  early  habits  of  religious  feeling  became 
morbid,  and  tended  strongly  to  bind  her  thoughts  to 
some  one  narrow  circle.  The  central  object  in  that 
circle  was  death.  On  a  stray  leaf  found  among  her 
papers  she  has  written  as  follows : — "  All  my  early 
religious  emotions  were  concentrated  on  the  one 
thought  of  death.  I  used  to  think  much  about  it. 
Tt  gave  a  melancholy  direction  to  all  my  childish 
feelings.     It  was  a  naked  sword  ever  hanging  over 


206  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

me  by  a  hair.  My  nurse  took  me  to  almost  all  the 
funerals  that  took  place  in  the  village,  and  at  last  I 
was  fond  of  going  to  them;  not  because  death  had 
become  any  the  less  terrible,  but  because  there  was 
something  in  the  exciting  stir  of  so  strong  an  emotion 
as  deep  grief,  which  suited  my  nature.  ...  I  can 
remember,  as  far  back  as  when  I  was  but  three  years 
old,  and  from  that  time  onward,  having  again  and 
again  cried  myself  to  sleep  because  I  must  some  time 
or  other  see  my  mother  die."  The  morbid  association 
of  her  childish  feelings  with  death  was  never  wholly 
broken  up.  Long  after  she  had  learned  to  think  and 
speak  of  her  own  death  with  a  calm  hopefulness,  she 
could  not  meet  with  composure  the  death  of  friends. 

At  the  age  of  sixteen,  Elizabeth  Stuart  left  her 
father's  house  to  enter  the  Mount  Vernon  School  at 
Boston,  under  the  care  of  the  Eev.  Jacob  Abbott,  in 
whose  family  she  resided  for  the  greater  part  of  two 
years.  This  period  was  exceedingly  fruitful  of  events 
which  affected  her  whole  character.  The  secluded  life 
she  had  previously  led  rendered  her  transition  to  a 
large  city  a  great  event.  New  scenes,  the  formation 
of  new  acquaintances,  and  subjection  to  a  new  disci- 
pline, could  not  but  impress  a  nature  so  susceptible  as 
hers.  Her  mind  now  unfolded  itself  rapidly,  and  her 
tastes  matured,  and  it  was  now  especially  she  became 
a  jDartaker  of  the  divine  life. 

Up  to  this  time  her  religious  opinions  do  not  appear 
to  have  been  the  subject  of  much  reflection,  nor  does 
she  seem  to  have  experienced  any  thing  unusual  to 
children  who  have  been  religiously  educated :  indeed, 
the  fidelity  of  Christian  parents  appears  not  to  have 
produced  in  her  case  so  great  distinctness  of  religious 
convictions  as  that  which  commonly  results  from  such 


THE    IDEA   OF   DEATH.  207 

fidelity.  The  exclusiveness  with  -which  the  idea  of 
death  possessed  her  childhood  on  the  subject  of  reli- 
gion shut  out,  apparently,  much  of  the  more  valuable 
reflection  •which  the  children  of  Christian  parents 
often  have  in  early  life.  In  the  fragmentary  record 
elie  has  left  of  the  fascination  with  which  funerals 
a  fected  her,  she  thus  speaks : — "  The  deep  solemnit}^ 
which  such  seasons  left  upon  my  mind  was  the  result 
of  fear  and  of  indefinable  awe  with  which  a  child 
looks  over  beyond  the  grave.  I  used  at  such  times 
to  go  often  to  meetings.  I  would  pray  much  that  1 
might  be  forgiven,  and  accepted  for  Christ's  sake; 
but  I  had  no  definite  idea  of  what  it  was  for  which  I 
must  be  forgiven.  I  read  a  great  deal  about  dying, 
and  about  the  soothing  presence  of  Christ  with  his 
followers  in  their  dying  hour.  When  my  fears  were 
Avide  awake,  as  they  used  most  often  to  be  at  night,  I 
used  to  repeat,  before  going  to  sleep, — 

'  Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed 
Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are.' " 

She  elsewhere  speaks  of  having  been  often  anxiously 
interested  in  the  salvation  of  her  soul;  and  she  adds, 
respecting  these  occasions,  "  They  were  mostly  at  times 
of  unusual  excitement,  caused  by  some  sudden  death, 
or  by  a  protracted  meeting.  I  particularly  remember 
a  visit  of  Dr.  Nettletou's  at  Andover,  and  his  '  inquiry- 
meetings,'  all  of  which  I  faithfully  attended.  None  of 
these  impressions,  however,  were  lasting;  they  died 
away  with  the  exciting  cause,"  at  least  so  far  as  the 
immediate  event  of  her  conversion  is  concerned. 

Her  narrative  of  the  way  in  which  her  mind  was 
again  engaged  in  religious  inquiries  is  interesting  as 
an  illustration  of  the  diversity  of  God's  ways.  It 
shows  how  he  adapts  his  grace  to  individual  peculiari- 


208  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

ties  of  temperament.     Silence  is  often  made  more  elo- 
quent than  speech. 

The  history  of  "the  great  change"  is  thus  con- 
tinued : — "  The  course  which  Mr.  Abbott  adopted  was 
entirely  the  reverse  of  that  to  which  I  had  been 
accustomed,  and  which  I  expected.  Instead  of  urging 
God's  claims  upon  me,  as  others  had  often  done,  ho 
preserved  an  unbroken  silence  on  the  subject  of  per- 
sonal religion.  This  surprised  me,  and  after  a  while 
made  me  uneasy.  I  brought  myself  at  length  to  ask 
him  for  the  cause  of  his  silence  towards  me  on  that 
subject.  He  told  me  that  he  considered  the  circum- 
stances under  which  I  had  been  brought  up  to  have 
been  such,  that  every  motive  which  could  influence  me 
had  been  already  urged,  and  that  I  had  deliberately 
made  my  choice,  and,  therefore,  that  it  remained  for 
him  only  to  fit  me  for  happiness  as  far  as  it  could  be 
had  in  this  world.  This  startled  me,  and  led  me  to 
look  more  earnestly  into  my  heart.  From  this  begin- 
ning I  was  led  on  gradually,  and  to  myself  almost  im- 
perceptibly, until  I  began  to  dare  to  hope  that  I  had 
become  a  child  of  God,  and  to  wish  to  take  upon  my- 
self the  name  of  Christ.  I  was  conscious  of  a  great 
change  in  me.  Thoughts  of  God  no  longer  filled  me 
with  horror;  but  a  view  of  his  holiness  and  purity  was 
granted  to  me,  which  filled  me  with  inexpressible  joy. 
I  felt  that  life  was  an  '  unspeakable  gift,'  because  there 
was  a  God.  I  desired  most  earnestly  to  approach  as 
near  to  his  holiness  as  I  was  able;  but  many  struggles 
taught  me  how  strong  a  hold  sin  had  in  this  heart. 
Here  the  atonement  of  Christ  first  met  me  with  power. 
I  felt  driven  to  it;  and,  in  view  of  it,  even  such  a 
sinning  heart  still  dared  to  look  up  and  struggle  on, 
feeling  that  its  heaviest  burden  Christ  himself  bore. 


THE    UKART    OIVKN    TO    GOD.  Z\jy 

I  began  to  desire  to  give  iiiyself  wholly  to  God  in 
Cbi-istj  I  wished  to  live  and  die  for  him;  I  longed  to 
lose  myself  in  him;  I  wished  to  indulge  no  plans,  nor 
purposes,  nor  feelings,  nor  thoughts,  of  which  love  to 
him  was  not  the  guiding  spring.  To  live  for  his  glory 
seemed  all  that  rendered  life  worth  possessing.  If  I 
must  cease  to  do  this,  I  would  also  cease  to  live.  This 
was  a  great  change  from  my  former  self,  and  I  have 
dared  to  hope  that  it  was  God's  ow^n  work." 

The  "gradual,"  and  to  herself  ''almost  impercepti- 
ble," process  of  which  she  speaks,  as  having  preceded 
the  dawn  of  Christian  hope  in  her  hearty  was  pro- 
tracted, we  are  told,  through  a  period  of  nearly  two 
years.  Her  susceptible  nature  could  not  but  be  stirred 
to  its  very  depths  by  earnest  religious  inquiry.  Her 
experience  was  rendered  the  more  tumultuous  in  its 
character  by  the  fact  that  this  inquiry  was  awakened 
just  at  the  time  when  her  whole  intellectual  being  was 
opening  itself  to  new  influences  and  approaching  the 
maturity  of  womanhood.  The  great  thoughts  of  life, 
and  death,  and  destiny,  and  God,  swayed  her  feelings 
impetuously  to  and  fro;  often,  for  long  periods,  her 
soul  was  too  powerfully  agitated  to  admit  of  her  rest- 
ing in  calm  hope. 

Even  at  this  early  period,  however,  her  strength  of 
character  prevented  any  tumultuous  exhibition  of  her 
feelings  to  others.  The  impression  which  they  re- 
ceived of  the  workings  of  her  mind  may  be  best  in- 
ferred from  the  judgment  expressed  by  Mr.  Abbott, 
" My  impression  is,  decidedly,"  he  w^rites,  "that  her 
religious  experience,  in  all  its  stages,  though  connected 
with  deep  feeling  within,  was  very  calm,  quiet,  and 
gentle,  in  all  the  external  manifestations  of  it.  There 
always  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  certain  principle  of 
u 


210  THE  DIVINE   LIEE. 

momentum,  so  to  speak,  in  Elizabeth's  mind,  wlncli 
gave  great  steadiness  to  all  its  action." 

It  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  this  young 
convert  brought  herself  to  communicate  her  feelings 
on  the  subject  of  religion,  even  to  those  who  possessed 
her  entire  confidence.  Yet  this  very  delicacy  of  her 
too  sensitive  heart  gave  a  dQ\)i\\  of  tenderness  to  her 
first  love  to  her  Saviour.  That  love  was  mingled  with 
a  feeling  of  self-reproach,  as  if  she  wronged  him  by 
being  a  mute  friend.  But  before  she  could  speak  for 
him,  she  would  write  for  him.  And  many  of  her 
letters,  written  at  the  time  when  she  first  indulged 
Christian  hope,  breathe  the  most  importunate  desires 
for  the  salvation  of  her  companions. 


Amidst  constitutional,  circumstantial,  social,  and 
even  moral  diversities,  we  find,  in  these  histories,  the 
gospel  producing  in  all  cases  substantially  the  same 
effects.  Speaking  of  Loskiel's  account  of  the  Moravian 
Missions  among  the  North  American  Indians,  Cecil 
said,  ''I  have  found  in  it  a  striking  illustration  of  the 
uniformity  with  which  the  grace  of  God  operates  on 
man.  Crantz,  in  his  account  of  the  missions  in  Green- 
land, had  shown  the  grace  of  God  working  on  a  'man- 
fish,' — on  a  stupid,  sottish,  senseless  creature,  scarcely 
a  remove  from  the  fish  on  which  he  lived.  Loskiel 
shows  the  same  grace  working  on  a  '  man-devil ; — a 
fierce,  bloody,  revengeful  warrior,  dancing  his  infernal 
war-dance  with  the  mind  of  a  fury.  Divine  grace 
brings  these  men  to  the  same  point.  It  quickens, 
stimulates,  and  elevates  the  Greenlander :  it  raises  him 
to  a  sort  of  new  life  :  it  seems  almost  to  bestow  on  him 
new  senses :  it  opens  his  eye,  and  bends  his  ear,  and 


REST   ONLY  IN   CHRIST.  211 

rouses  liis  heart :'and  what  it  adds  it  sanctifies.  The 
same  grace  tames  the  high  spirit  of  the  Indian :  it 
reduces  him  to  the  meekness  and  docility  and  sim- 
plicity of  a  child.  The  evidence  arising  to  Christianity 
from  these  facts  is,  perhaps,  seldom  sufficient  by  itself 
to  convince  the  gainsayer:  hut,  to  a  man  who  already 
believes,  it  greatly  strengthens  the  reasons  of  his  belief. 
I  have  seen  also  in  these  books,  that,  the  fish-boat  and 
the  oil  and  the  tomahawk  and  the  cap  of  feathers 
excepted,  a  Christian  minister  has  to  deal  with  just 
the  same  sort  of  creatures  as  the  Greenlander  and  the 
Indian  among  civilized  nations." 

From  the  diversity  and  unitj^  which  we  have  seen 
to  characterize  convei'sion,  it  follows  that  the  concern 
of  those  who  profess  fixith  in  Christ  should  be  not  how 
they  have  been  brought  to  its  possession,  but  whether 
they  really  have  it  or  not, — that  each  one  may  be 
able  to  say,  at  the  least,  with  the  blind  man  of  old, 
"One  thing  I  know,  that,  whereas  I  was  blind,  now  I 
see."  Nothing  can  be  more  unsafe  than  to  rest  in  the 
mere  fact  of  having  been  the  subjects  of  sudden  im- 
pressions, whether  of  an  awful  or  joyful  character; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  absence  of  such  impres- 
sions should  produce  no  misgiving  in  his  mind  who 
has  other  and  more  satisfactory  evidence  that  he  is  a 
new  creature  in  Christ  Jesus. 

Another  lesson  may  be  drawn  from  our  histories, 
and  it  is  this : — at  whatever  stage  of  spiritual  progress 
you  have  arrived,  act  up  to  your  light.  Dream  not  of 
going  back.  The  "city  of  destruction"  is  behind,  the 
light  of  heaven  is  before.  If  you  can  only  cry,  "What 
shall  I  do?  continue  to  ask  the  question  with  deep  and 
solemn  earnestness.  If  you  have  only  light  enough  to 
see  it  your  duty  to  read  and  pray,  go  and  do  it.     If 


212  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

conscience  tells  you  to  abandon  certain  sins  and  com- 
panions, obey,  and  do  it  with  all  the  decision  of  one 
who  feels  that  life  and  death  are  in  the  balance. 

But,  at  the  same  time,  let  no  one  be  satisfied  till  he 
has  placed  his  soul  in  the  hands  of  the  loving  and  all- 
sufiicient  Saviour.  Eeading  and  pi-aying,  if  rested  in, 
will  prove  not  helps,  but  hinderances.  Even  the  aban- 
donment of  sinful  habits,  if  trusted  in  as  a  quahfication 
for  coming  to  Christ,  or  as  constituting  any  claim  to 
his  favour,  will  prove,  as  it  did  in  the  case  of  John 
Bunyan,  a  vain  attempt  to  establish  one's  own 
righteousness,  instead  of  submitting  to  the  divinely- 
appointed  way  of  pardon  and  life.  The  awakened 
inquirer  should  come  to  the  Saviour  as  he  is,  "nor 
of  fitness  fondly  dream."  The  biographer  of  Hewitson 
remarks  well,  that  when  he  came  to  Christ  and 
rejoiced  in  the  freeness  of  the  gift  of  life,  it  was  not 
in  virtue  of,  or  as  qualified  by,  the  two  years'  anguish 
through  which  he  had  passed,  but  simply  in  virtue  of 
the  divine  authority  which  he  had  from  the  begin- 
ning:— "Come  unto  me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

"  oil,  how  unlike  the  complex  works  of  man, 
Heaven's  easy,  artless,  unencumbei'd  plan ! 
No  meretricious  graces  to  beguile, 
No  clustering  ornaments  to  clog  the  pile ;     . 
From  ostentation,  as  from  weakness,  free, 
It  stands  like  the  cerulean  arch  we  see, 
Mfuestic  in  its  own  simplicity. 
Inscribed  above  the  portal  from  afar, 
Conspicuous  as  the  brightness  of  a  star, 
Legible  only  by  the  light  they  give. 
Stand  the  soul-quickening  words, — Believe  and  Live." 


PART   THE   THIRD. 

THE    DIVINE    LIFE:    PROVIDENTIAL    OCCASIONS. 

FACTS. 

Contents. — Events  divided  into  Two  Classes — The  Casual,  a 
Storehouse  of  Divine  Weapons — Gifford — Bunyan — Alderman 
Kiffin — Lady  Huntingdon  and  Captain  Scott — Robinson — Simeon 
— Wilberforce  —  Legh  Richmond  —  Chalmers — Doddridge — R. 
Haldane — Students  in  Geneva — John  Williams — Dr.  Judson — 
Budgett — Hewitson — Dr.  Hope — Narrative  by  Dr.  Malan — The 
Influence  of  Affliction — Howels — Cecil — Waldo — John  Newton 
— Remarks  by  Tholuck — The  Finger  of  God. 


"  The  manifold  wisdom  of  God  is  conspicuously  exhibited,  no  less 
than  his  inexpressibly-condescending  love,  in  the  variety  of  leadings  by 
which  men  are  brought  to  the  attainment  of  the  one  great  object, — Re- 
demption."— Neandek. 

"  This  also  cometh  forth  from  the  Lord  of  hosts,  which  is  wonderful 
in  counsel  and  excellent  in  working." — Isaiah. 

213 


"What  is  his  Creation  less 
Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means, 
Form'd  for  his  use,  and  ready  at  his  will  ?" — Cowper. 

"  Lord,  with  what  care  hast  thou  begirt  us  round  I 
Parents  first  season  us  :  then  schoolmasters 
Deliver  us  to  laws;  they  send  us  bound 
To  rules  of  reason,  holy  messengers. 
Pulpits  and  Sundays,  sorrow  dogging  sin, 
Affliction  sorted,  anguish  of  all  sizes, 
Fine  nets  and  stratagems  to  catch  us  in; 
Bibles  laid  open,  millions  of  surprises. 
Blessings  beforehand,  ties  of  gratefulness, 
The  sound  of  glory  ringing  in  our  ears  ; 
Without,  our  shame ;  within,  our  consciences ; 
Angels  and  grace,  eternal  hopes  and  fears." — IIerbebt. 


214 


THE    DIVINE    LIFE: 

PROVIDENTIAL    OCCASIONS. 

The  author  of  the  "Natural  History  of  Enthusiasm" 
proposes  a  beautiful  analysis  of  the  order  and  harmony 
of  Providence.  He  says,  that  ''events  may  be  divided 
into  two  classes : — first,  those  which  arise  in  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  experience,  and  which,  being  regulated 
by  certain  known  laws,  natural  or  moral,  may,  to  a  cer- 
tain and  often  a  great  extent,  be  calculated  before- 
hand, and  thus  bring  into  exercise  the  quality  of 
jH'udence,  or  the  useful  faculty  of  long-sightedness. 
Indeed,  a  careful  observation  and  right  estimate  of 
such  causes  and  effects  may  be  said  to  constitute  the 
best  kind  of  worldly  wisdom.  Another  and  more 
limited  class  of  events  may  be  described  as  incidental 
or  fortuitous.  These  intersect  the  common  course, 
the  straightforward  line  of  our  experience,  from  a 
multitude  of  different  points.  They  bear  laterally 
upon  us,  and  arise  out  of  an  endless  and  ever-varied 
train  of  causes,  connected  very  probably  with  the  life 
and  conduct  of  others, — originating,  it  may  be,  in 
some  idle  word,  or  some  thoughtless  action,  of  some 
unknown  person,  whose  mortal  existence  has  been 
closed  for  centuries.  And  yet  these  apparently  stray  cir- 
cumstances often  intersect  our  path  just  at  such  a  time 
and  in  such  a  manner  as  enable  them  to  serve  the  most 
important  purposes  for  our  temporal  and  spiritual  good." 

In   reference   to  these   two  distinguishable  classes 

215 


216  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

of  events,  namely,  those  which  may  be  foreknown 
by  human  sagacity,  and  those  which  maj-  not,  ''it 
is  manifest  that  the  former  exclusively  is  given  to 
man  as  the  sphere  of  his  labours,  and  for  the  exercise 
of  his  skill;  while  the  latter  is  reserved  as  the  royal 
domain  of  sovereign  bounty  and  infinite  wisdom." 
To  the  former  class,  as  providential  occasions  of  spi- 
ritual life  to  the  souls  of  men,  belong  the  regular 
ministrations  of  Christ's  gospel,  the  habitual  reading 
of  Holy  Scripture,  parental  instruction.  Sabbath- 
school  tuition,  and  every  other  form  of  systematic 
endeavour  to  bring  men's  minds  under  the  influence 
of  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus.  To  the  latter  belong 
those  apparent  fortuities  by  which  men  are  brought 
into  contact  with  the  truth,  or  disposed  to  open  their 
ears  and  hearts  to  it.  And  it  is  to  the  illustration  of 
these  we  now  proceed.  The  hand  of  God  may  be  very 
clearly  seen  in  them.  To  use  the  words  of  Mr.  Isaac 
Taylor,  they  "constitute  a  superstratum  in  the  system 
of  human  affairs,  wherein,  peculiarly,  the  divine  pro- 
vidence holds  empire  for  the  accomplishment  of  its 
special  purposes.  It  is  from  this  hidden  and  inex- 
haustible mine  of  chances — chances  as  we  must  call 
them — that  the  Governor  of  the  world  draws,  with 
unfathomable  skill,  the  materials  of  his  dispensations 
towards  each  individual  of  mankind.  The  world  of 
nature  affords  no  instances  of  complicated  and  exact 
contrivance  comparable  to  that  which  so  arranges  the 
vast  chaos  of  contingencies  as  to  produce,  with  un- 
erring precision,  a  special  order  of  events  adapted  to 
the  character  of  every  individual  of  the  human  fiimilj^ 
Amid  the  whirl  of  myriads  of  fortuities,  the  means  are 
selected  and  combined  for  constructing  as  many  inde- 
pendent machineries  of  moral  discipline  as  there  are 


PROVIDENCE.  217 

moral  agents  in  the  world;  and  each  apparatus  is  at 
once  complete  in  itself,  and  complete  as  part  of  a 
universal  movement. 

"If  the  special  intentions  of  Providence  towards 
individuals  were  effected  by  the  aid  of  supernatural 
interpositions,  the  power  and  presence  of  the  Supreme 
Disposer  might  indeed  be  more  strikingly  displayed 
than  it  is;  but  his  skill  much  less.  And  herein  espe- 
cially is  manifested  the  perfection  of  the  Divine  wis- 
dom, that  the  most  surprising  conjunctions  of  events 
are  brought  about  by  the  simplest  means,  and  in  a 
manner  so  perfectly  in  harmony  with  the  ordinary 
course  of  human  affairs,  that  the  hand  of  the  Mover  is 
ever  hidden  beneath  second  causes,  and  is  descried 
only  by  the  eye  of  pious  affection.  This  is,  in  fact, 
the  great  miracle  of  Providence,  that  no  miracles  are 
needed  to  accomplish  its  purposes.  Countless  series 
of  events  are  travelling  on  from  remote  quarters 
towards  the  same  point,  and  each  series  moves  in  the 
beaten  track  of  natural  occurrences;  but  their  inter- 
section, at  the  very  moment  in  which  they  meet,  shall 
serve,  perhaps,  to  give  a  new  direction  to  the  affairs  of 
an  empire.  The  materials  of  the  machinery  of  Pro- 
vidence are  all  of  common  quality;  but  their  combina- 
tion displays  nothing  less  than  infinite  skill."  "This 
also  Cometh  forth  from  the  Lord  of  hosts,  which  is 
wonderful  in  counsel,  and  excellent  in  working." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  name  a  man  whose  labours 
or  writings  have  contributed  to  the  character  of  this 
age,  in  whose  history  we  shall  not  find  remarkable 
chances, — as  men  would  call  them, — chances  which,  in 
some  instances,  involved  the  life  of  the  man,  and  in 
others  formed  the  crisis  of  his  spiritual  history.   John 


218  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

Bunyan  and  Lis  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  for  instance, 
have  contributed  more,  perhaps,  to  the  thinking  and 
feeUng  of  the  last  two  hundred  years  than  any  other 
hook  and  man  that  can  be  named.  But  on  how  many 
contingencies  was  Bunyan's  life  suspended,  and  how 
many  contributed  to  his  conversion ! 

The  history  of  his  instructor — the  "Evangelist" 
of  his  immortal  allegory,  who  directed  him  to  the 
wicket-gate  —  comes  first  before  us.  Gifford  had 
been  a  royalist  in  his  youth.  He  was  arrested  for 
Gifford.  Of  Bed-  ^^^  coucem  in  the  rising  in  Kent, 
^°^'^-  and,  with  eleven  of  his  comrades,  was 

doomed  to  die.  The  night  befoi-e  the  day  fixed  for  his 
execution,  his  sister  came  to  visit  him.  She  found 
the  guard  asleep,  and  assisted  her  brother  to  effect 
his  escape.  For  three  days  the  fugitive  lay  hid  in  a 
field  in  the  bottom  of  a  deep  ditch,  but  at  last  got 
away  to  a  place  of  safety  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Bed- 
ford. There,  being  a  perfect  stranger,  he  ventured  on 
the  practice  of  physic,  and  abandoned  himself  to  reck- 
less habits  and  outrageous  vice.  One  evening  he  lost 
a  large  sum  of  money  at  the  gaming-table;  and,  in  the 
fierceness  of  his  chagrin,  his  mind  was  filled  with  the 
most  desperate  thoughts  of  the  providence  of  God.  In 
his  vexation  he  snatched  up  a  book.  It  was  a  volume 
of  Bolton, — "a  solemn  and  forceful  writer"  then  well 
known.  A  sentence  of  this  book  so  fixed  itself  on 
Gilford's  conscience  that  for  many  weeks  he  could  get 
no  rest  in  his  spirit.  At  last  he  found  peace  through 
the  blood  of  the  cross,  and  his  joy  was  extreme.  For 
some  time  the  few  pious  individuals  in  that  neigh- 
boui-hood  would  not  believe  that  such  a  reprobate  was 
really  converted.  But,  nothing  daunted  by  their  dis- 
trust, like  his  prototype  of  Tarsus,  he  began  to  preach 


WILLIAM    KIFFIN.  219 

the  word  with  boldness,  and,  endowed  with  a  vigorous 
mind  and  a  fervent  spirit,  great  success  attended  his 
ministry.  Imagination  could  not  feign  a  more  fitting 
history  for  the  pastor  of  John  Bunyan. 

William  Iviffin  hved  through  one  of  the  most 
eventful  periods  of  English  history,  from 

-•/i-./T.-f.»/->i  1  n   ,^  i  "William  Kiffln: 

161b  to  1701,  and  was  one  ot  the  most  bom  16I6;  died 
influential  merchants  and  eminent  Chris- 
tians in  the  city  of  London.  His  position  brought 
him  into  contact  with  the  great  statesmen,  good  and 
bad,  of  the  reigns  of  the  two  Charleses  and  of  James 
II.,  while  his  principles  exposed  him  to  frequent  and 
cruel  persecution. 

When  a  great  plague  desolated  London  in  1625, 
William  Eaffin  was  nine  years  of  age.  Almost  all  his 
relations  were  swept  away  by  the  deadly  scourge,  and 
his  life  was  for  a  time  despaired  of.  On  his  recovery 
he  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  surviving  relatives, 
who  soon  failed  in  business,  and  lost  what  of  property 
belonged  to  him.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  was  ap- 
prenticed to  "  a  mean  calling,"  and  two  years  after, 
the  melancholy  which  preyed  on  his  mind  induced  him 
to  run  away  from  his  master.  For  hours  he  wandered 
up  and  down  the  streets  with  almost  as  little  of  plan 
or  intention  as  the  leaf  that  is  driven,  now  in  one 
direction  and  now  in  another,  by  the  fitful  winds. 
But  the  winds,  lawless  though  we  call  them,  are  obe- 
dient to  natural  laws  which  govern  all  their  currents 
and  powers,  and  every  leaf  that  is  tossed  by  them 
hither  and  thither  is  moved  according  to  the  force 
that  propels  it.  In  like  manner  does  Providence 
invisibly  govern  the  most  chanceful  and  accidental 
occurrences  of  life.     The  boy  Kiffin  was  like  a  leaf  or 


220  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

straw  driven  by  the  winds,  when  he  passed  St.  An- 
tholin's  Church  and  saw  people  going  in  to  worship. 
He  followed  without  knowing  why.  The  preacher 
took  for  his  text  the  fifth  commandment,  and  dwelt 
specially  on  the  duty  of  servants  to  their  masters. 
The  runaway  apprentice  was  bewildered,  imagined 
himself  discovered,  and  thought  the  minister  preached 
to  him.  On  the  dismissal  of  the  congregation  he 
returned  to  his  home,  and  found  his  master  unaware 
of  his  intention  to  forsake  his  service.  Soon  after  he 
went  to  the  same  sanctuary  and  heard  a  sermon  on 
the  words,  "  There  is  no  peace,  saith  my  God,  to  the 
wicked."  The  minister  showed  what  true  peace  was, 
and  that  no  man  could  obtain  it  but  by  faith  in  Jesus 
Christ.  Young  Kiffin  was  impressed,  and  felt  that 
he  was  a  stranger  to  that  peace.  His  peri)lexity  of 
mind  was  great.  "I  saw  myself,"  he  says,  " every  day 
more  and  more  sinful  and  vile:  pray  I  could  not;  be- 
lieve in  Jesus  Christ  I  could  not.  I  thought  myself  shut 
up  in  unbelief;  and  although  I  desired  to  mourn  under 
the  sense  of  my  sins,  yet  I  saw  there  was  no  suitable 
proportion  of  sorrow  to  that  evil  nature  which  I  found 
strongly  working  in  my  soul."  From  this  time  he  at- 
tended a  faithful  ministry,  by  which  he  was  led  gra- 
dually to  the  enjoyment  of  peace.  In  a  sermon  on 
1  John  i.  7, — "The  blood  of  Jesus  Christ  his  Son 
cleanseth  us  from  all  sin," — the  minister  showed  the 
efficacy  of  the  blood  of  Christ  both  to  pardon  and  to 
cleanse  from  sin,  and  answered  many  objections  which 
the  unbelieving  heart  of  man  brings  against  that  full 
satisfaction  which  Jesus  Christ  has  made  for  sinners. 
"I  found  many  of  them  were  such  as  I  had  made  in 
my  own  heart;  such  as  the  sense  of  unworthiness, 
and  willingness  [desire]  to  be  better  before  I  would 


LADY '  HUNTINGDON.  221 

conio  to  Christ  for  life,  with  many  other  of  the  Hko 
kind.  This  sermon  was  of  great  use  to  my  soul.  I 
thought  I  found  my  heart  greatly  to  close  with  the 
riches  and  freeness  of  grace  which  God  held  forth 
to  poor  sinners.  I  found  my  fears  to  vanish,  and  my 
heart  filled  with  love  to  Jesus  Christ.  I  saw  sin  viler 
than  ever,  and  felt  my  heart  more  abhorring  it." 
His  growing  faith  and  holiness  soon  proved  that  ho 
was  now  a  new  creature  in  Christ  Jesus.  And  the 
design  of  that  Providence  which  led  the  wandering 
steps  of  the  boy  into  St.  Antholin's  Church  was  mani- 
fested in  the  future  character  and  usefulness  of  the 
man. 

In  the  history  of  the  Countess  op  Huntingdon 
there  are  many  instances  of  providen-  Ladysunting- 
tial  occurrences  of  an  unexpected  cha-  '^°''' 
racter  leading  to  the  most  lasting  spiritual  results. 
A  Captain  Scott  had  been  exposed  to  ^^^^^^^  g^„,,_ 
many  dangers  as  a  soldier,  and  had  been 
frequently  awakened  by  them  to  think  of  the  claims 
of  religion.  It  was  his  daily  practice,  though  felt  to 
be  a  toilsome  duty,  to  read  the  psalms  and  lessons  of 
the  day,  a  practice  well  known  to  his  brother-ofiicers ; 
but,  as  his  conduct  in  other  respects  conformed  to 
theirs,  they  gave  him  no  opposition.  On  one  occasion, 
when  out  on  a  shooting-party  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Oathall,  in  Sussex,  he  was  driven  by  a  storm,  for 
cover,  to  the  house  of  a  farmer.  There  he  found  seve- 
ral labourers,  who  had  taken  shelter  in  the  same  cot- 
tage. The  conversation  of  the  thinner  and  his  labour- 
ers struck  the  soldier  with  surprise.  Where  had  they 
obtained  their  knowledge  and  acquired  the  sentiments 
they  expressed  ?     "At  the  hall  yonder,''  they  told  him, 


222  THE   DIVINE   LIFE.  -; 

"where  there  was  now  a  very  famous  man,  a  Mr. 
Eomaine,  preaching  for  Lady  Huntingdon ;"  and  they 
importunately  invited  him  to  come  and  hear  for  him- 
self The  following  Sunday  he  went,  and  was  struck 
with  the  solemnity  of  the  congregation  and  the  im- 
pressive manner  in  which  the  service  was  conducted. 
]\Ir.  Eomaine  preached  on  our  Lord's  words  in  John 
xiv.  6,  "  I  am  the  way."  The  truth  then  delivered 
was  exactly  suited  to  the  case  of  Captain  Scott.  It 
emancipated  him  from  the  bondage  of  fear,  and  in- 
spired him  with  a  love  to  God,  under  whose  influence 
religion  ceased  to  be  a  form,  or  a  thing  of  fits  and 
starts,  and  became  the  habitual  temi^er  of  his  mind 
and  law  of  his  life.  He  became  a  preacher  of  the 
gospel,  and  hundreds  were  afterwards  converted  under 
the  ministry  of  one  who  was  thus  casually  brought  to 
a  knowledge  of  saving  truth. 

Lady  Huntingdon  was  a  frequent  visitor  in  the  cot- 
tages of  the  poor,  ministering  with  a  liberal  hand  to 
their  temporal  wants,  praying  beside  the  beds  of  the 
sick,  interesting  herself  in  their  every  concern,  and, 
above  all,  ever  directing  them  to  the  all-suflScient 
Friend  above.  On  one  occasion,  we  are  told,  her 
ladyship  spoke  to  a  workman  who  was  repairing  a 
garden- wall,  and  pressed  him  to  take  some  thought 
concerning  eternity  and  the  state  of  his  soul.  Some 
years  afterwards  she  was  speaking  to  another  on  the 
same  subject,  and  said  to  him,  "Thomas,  I  fear  you 
never  pray,  nor  look  to  Christ  for  salvation."  "  Your 
ladyship  is  mistaken,"  answered  the  man ;  "  I  heard 
what  passed  between  you  and  James  at  such  a  time, 
and  the  word  you  designed  for  him  took  effect  on  me." 
"  How  did  you  hear  it  ?"  inquired  Lady  Huntingdon. 
"  I  heard  it,"  answered  the  man,  "  on  the  other  side 


THOMAS  ROBINSON.  223 

of  the  garden,  through  a  hole  in  the  wall,  and  shall 
never  forget  the  impression  I  received." 

There  are  few  names  more  honoured  among  the 
useful  working  clergy  of  the  Church  of 

°  °"'  Thomas    Ro- 

Ensrland  than  that  of  the  late  Thomas     binsou ;  bom  at 

AATakeflcld  1749" 

EoBiNSON,  vicar  of  St.  Mary's,  Leicester,  died  at  Leicee- 
The  eulogy  pronounced  upon  him  by  a 
member  of  another  communion,  the  eloquent  Eobert 
Hall,  is  well  known.  ''  Who  ever  heard  him,"  said  Mi-. 
Hall,  "  without  feeling  a  persuasion  that  it  was  a  man 
of  God  that  addressed  him,  or  without  being  struck 
with  the  perspicuity  of  his  statements,  the  solidity  of 
his  thoughts,  and  the  rich  unction  of  his  spirit?  It 
was  the  harp  of  David,  which,  struck  by  his  powerful 
hand,  sent  forth  more  than  mortal  sounds,  and  pro- 
duced an  impression  far  more  deep  and  permanent 
than  the  thunder  of  Demosthenes,  or  the  splendid 
coruscations  of  Cicero.  .  .  .  Through  the  protracted 
period  of  his  labours,  many  thousands,  who  have 
finished  their  course  with  joy,  derived  from  his  minis- 
try, there  is  every  reason  to  believe,  the  principle  of 
a  new  life.  His  residence  in  Leicester  forms  an  epoch 
in  the  religious  history  of  this  county.  From  that 
time  must  be  dated,  and  to  his  agency  under  Provi- 
dence must  be  ascribed,  a  decided  improvement  in  the 
moral  and  religious  state  of  this  town  and  its  vicinity, 
— an  increase  of  religious  light,  together  with  a  gene- 
ral diffusion  of  a  taste  and  relish  for  the  pure  word  of 
God.  It  is  only  once  in  an  age  that  an  individual  is 
permitted  to  confer  such  benefits  on  the  place  of  his 
residence  as  this  ancient  and  respectable  borough 
derived  from  the  labours  of  Mr.  Eobinson;  and  the 
change  which  Baxter  accomplished  at  Kidderminster 


224  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

he  effected  at  Leicester.  It  was  the  boast  of  Augus- 
tus, that  he  found  the  city  of  Eome  composed  of  brick, 
and  left  it  marble ;  Mr.  Eobinson  might  say,  without 
arrogance,  that  he  had  been  the  instrument  of  effecting 
a  far  more  beneficial  and  momentous  change.  He  came 
to  this  place  w^hile  it  was  sunk  in  vice  and  irrcligion ; 
he  left  it  eminently  distinguished  by  sobriety  of  man- 
ners, and  the  practice  of  warm,  serious,  and  enlight- 
ened piety.  He  added  not  aqueducts  and  palaces, 
nor  did  he  increase  the  sjilendour  of  its  public  edifices : 
but  he  embellished  it  with  undecaying  ornaments ;  he 
renovated  the  minds  of  the  people,  and  turned  a  large 
portion  of  them  <  from  darkness  to  light,  and  from  the 
power  of  Satan  unto  Grod.'  He  embellished  it  with 
living  stones,  and  replenished  it  with  numerous  tem- 
ples of  the  Holy  Ghost." 

The  providential  means  by  which  this  man  of  ^'  mas- 
culine understanding"  and  "capacious  heart"  became 
a  Christian  were,  some  of  them  at  least,  of  that  appa- 
rently casual  order  in  which  many  fail  to  see  more 
than  chance.  Thomas  Eobinson's  early  youth  was 
not  characterized  by  any  strong  imj)ressions  of  reli- 
gion. His  attention  was  much  engrossed  with  the 
fascinations  of  art,  literature,  and  the  drama.  But 
just  before  his  departure  from  home  for  the  commence- 
ment of  a  college  life,  he  met  a  poor  man,  a  shoemaker 
of  Wakefield,  who  asked  him  whether  he  was  not  going 
to  be  a  clergyman.  On  receiving  an  answer  in  the 
affirmative,  the  poor  man  added,  "Then,  sir,  I  hope 
you  will  study  your  Bible,  that  you  may  be  able  to 
feed  the  flock  of  Chi-ist  with  spiritual  food."  Eobin- 
son was  much  impressed  with  the  kindness  and  ho- 
nesty of  his  poor  friend,  and  cheerfully  accepted  the 
loan  of  a  few  humble  volumes  of  practical  and  experi- 


ROBINSON   AT   CAMBRIDGE.  225 

mental  piety.  About  the  same  time  he  was  visited  by 
a  severe  illness,  Avhich  threatened  his  life.  And  the 
seriousness  of  sj)irit  produced  hy  these  two  circum- 
stances was  further  confirmed  by  a  dream,  of  which 
he  was  afterwards  accustomed  to  relate  that  it  brought 
before  his  eyes  a  lively  representation  of  Wakefield 
Church  in  flames ;  that  awful  appeai-ances  in  the  sky 
ensued;  till  at  last  the  conflagration  of  the  world 
began,  and  he  was  hurried  up  into  the  air  to  meet 
his  Judge.  For  this  and  similar  dreams  we  claim 
no  supernatural  character:  nothing  could  be  more 
entirely  natural,  or  more  naturally  suggested  by  his 
circumstances  and  his  waking  thoughts.  But  its 
beneficial  influence  is  not,  on  this  account,  to  be 
treated  as  other  than  providential. 

Thomas  Eobinson  was  no  longer  a  trifler,  but 
deeply  in  earnest.  Still,  he  was  far  from  being  a 
new  creature  in  Christ  Jesus.  For  two  years  he  con- 
tinued in  great  perplexity  of  mind,  not  knowing 
whither  to  turn  or  what  to  do.  And  then  he  had 
recourse  to  scenes  of  gayety  and  dissipation.  But 
the  misgivings  of  his  conscience  interrujited  his  enjoy- 
ment of  sinful  pleasure,  and  his  soul  became  like  the 
troubled  sea  which  cannot  rest.  At  length,  in  1768, 
he  took  up  his  residence  within  the  walls  of  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge.  He  was  elated  with  the  novelty 
of  the  scene,  and  its  associations  of  age  and  wisdom 
and  piety,  and  devoted  himself  to  his  studies  with 
zeal  and  interest.  His  religion,  too,  such  as  it  was, 
rendered  his  habits  and  conversation  very  different 
from  those  of  the  greater  part  of  his  cotemporaries. 
But  he  was  still  without  peace  with  God.  It  was 
about  a  year  after  his  arrival  at  the  university  that 
the  perusal  of  Hervey's   "  Theron  and  Aspasio'^  was 


226  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

the  means  of  turning  him.  from  darkness  to  that  light 
in  which  he  saw  clearly  the  ground  of  pardon  and 
peace,  and  found  at  the  same  time  the  spring  of  true 
godliness.  He  now  understood  the  great  and  funda- 
mental doctrine  that  it  is  "not  by  works  of  righteous- 
ness" which  we  can  do,  but  "according  to  his  own 
mercy"  God  will  save  us.  And  being  saved  by  grace, 
instead  of  continuing  in  sin,  it  was  his  early  and  con- 
stant endeavour  to  have  his  whole  body,  soul,  and 
spirit  sanctified  to  the  will  and  service  of  God.  The 
truths  which  proved  his  own  deliverance  from  the 
bondage  of  a  burdened  conscience  and  from  the  power 
of  an  evil  heart  formed  the  staple  of  his  after-ministry, 
and  were  the  instruments  of  that  spiritual  reformation 
which,  in  the  terms  we  have  already  quoted,  Eobert 
Hall  ascribed  to  his  labours  in  Leicester. 

The  name  of  Charles  Simeon  is  still  more  intimately 
connected  with  the  revival  of  evangelical 
iueonf''born  ^at  rcligion  in  England  than  that  of  Thomas 
^rS'diefa;  Robinson.  The  influence  of  the  latter, 
insae^^^'^'"''  g^eat  and  beneficial  as  it  was,  was  chiefly 
local.  Before  the  close  of  Mr.  Simeon's 
ministry,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  in  Eng- 
land the  district  in  which  one  would  not  meet  with 
a  clergyman,  or  other  educated  gentleman,  who  was 
teaching  and  adorning  the  precious  truths  which  he 
had  first  heard  at  Trinity  Church,  Cambridge,  or  in 
the  faith  of  which  he  had  been  there  greatly  strength- 
ened and  encouraged.  And  yet  the  turning-point 
of  Simeon's  own  spiritual  history  was  of  a  most 
unlikely  and  unexpected  character. 

While  a  boy  at  Eton  College,  Charles  Simeon,  though 
governed  by  no  better  principles  than  his  schoolfellows, 


CHARLES   SI3IE0N.  LZl 

was  distinguished  for  energy  and  vigour.  On  one 
of  the  public  fast-days  during  the  American  war,  he 
was  particularly  struck  with  the  idea  of  the  whole 
nation  uniting  in  fasting  and  prayer  on  account  of  the 
sins  which  had  brought  down  divine  judgments  upon 
it;  and  he  thought  that  if  there  was  one  who  had  more 
displeased  God  than  others  it  was  he.  Few  of  his 
schoolfellows  had  any  notion  of  a  fast,  except  that 
they  were  to  abstain  from  meat  and  amusement  till 
the  afternoon  after  the  second  service.  But  young 
Simeon  felt  that  to  humble  himself  before  God  was  a 
duty  of  immediate  necessity.  Accordingly  he  spent 
the  day  in  fasting  and  prayer.  His  companions  ex- 
claimed, "Woe,  woe  unto  you,  hypocrites  !"  Before 
this  blast  of  scorn  his  good  resolutions  were  dissipated, 
and  he  became  as  thoughtless  as  ever.  The  only  trace 
of  religious  impression  that  remained  was  that,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  a  Pharisee,  he  had  a  small  box  with 
several  divisions  in  it,  into  which,  on  having  been 
tempted  to  say  or  do  what  he  afterwards  considei-ed 
unlawful  or  immoral,  it  was  his  custom  to  put  money 
for  the  poor. 

In  1779  young  Simeon  entered  King's  College,  in 
the  University  of  Cambridge.  And  on  the  third  day 
after  his  arrival  a  circumstance  took  place  which  might 
have  hardened  him  in  formality,  or  produced  infidelity, 
but  which  was  overruled  by  divine  gi-ace  to  the  saving 
of  his  soul.  He  was  told  that  he  was  expected  in  the 
space  of  about  three  weeks  to  attend  the  Lord's  Supper. 
"What!"  he  said;  '■'■must  I  attend?"  On  being  in- 
formed that  he  mwsf,  the  thought  rushed  into  his 
mind  that  Satan  himself  was  as  f],t  to  attend  as  he, 
and  that  if  he  must  attend  he  must  prepare.  Without 
a  moment's  loss  of  time  he  bought  the  old  "Whole 


228  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

Duty  of  Man,"  (the  only  religious  book,  he  says,  he  had 
ever  heard  of,)  and  began  to  read  it  with  great  dili- 
gence, at  the  same  time  calling  his  ways  to  remem- 
brance, and  crying  to  God  for  mercy;  and  so  earnest 
was  he  in  these  exercises,  that  within  the  three  weeks 
he  made  himself  quite  ill  with  reading,  fasting,  and 
prayer. 

On  Easter  Sunday  Mr.  Simeon  must  receive  the 
Lord's  Supper  again,  and  he  continued  with  unabated 
earnestness  to  search  out  and  mourn  over  what  he 
des-cribes  as  the  numberless  iniquities  of  his  former 
life;  and  so  greatly  was  his  mind  oppressed  with  the 
weight  of  them,  that,  like  Colonel  Gardiner,  he  fre- 
quently looked  upon  the  dogs  with  envy,  wishing,  if  it 
w^ere  possible,  that  he  could  be  blessed  with  their  mor- 
tality, and  they  be  cursed  with  his  immortality  in  his 
stead.  He  set  himself  to  undo  his  former  sins,  and  in 
his  endeavours  to  this  end  practised  great  self-denial. 
After  three  months  of  deep  mental  distress,  the  day 
of  j)eace  and  hope  dawned  upon  his  soul.  In  the  week 
before  Easter,  as  he  was  reading  Bishop  Wilson  on 
the  Lord's  Supper,  he  met  with  an  expression  to  this 
effect : — "  That  the  Jews  knew  what  they  did  when  they 
transferred  their  sin  to  the  head  of  their  oftering." 
This  remark  opened  to  him  a  new  world  of  spiritual 
vision,  and  the  thought  rushed  into  his  mind,  "What! 
may  I  transfer  all  my  guilt  to  another?  Has  God 
provided  an  offering  for  me  that  I  may  lay  my  sins  on 
his  head?  Then,  God  willing,  I  will  not  bear  them  on 
my  own  soul  one  moment  longer."  The  great  sacri- 
fice that  was  offered  on  the  cross  appeared  to  him  now 
in  an  altogether  new  light.  He  understood  in  some 
measure  how  ''He  who  knew  no  sin"  had  become 
"sin  for  us,  that  we  might  be  made  the  righteousness 


STEWART   OF    MOULIX.  229 

of  God  in  him."  His  hope  of  mercy  grew  brighter 
and  brighter,  till  on  the  morning  of  Easter-day  he 
awoke  early,  with  those  words  in  his  heart  and  on  his 
lips,  "  Jesus  Christ  is  risen  to-day !  Hallelujah ! 
Hallelujah!"  "From  that  hour/'  he  says,  "peace 
flowed  in  rich  abundance  into  my  soul,  and  at  the 
Lord's  table  I  had  the  sweetest  access  to  God  through 
my  blessed  Saviour."  The  fancy  of  his  Eton  days, 
that  he  made  amends  for  his  sins  by  giving  money  to 
the  poor,  was  now  forever  at  an  end;  but  the  freeness 
of  the  mercy  in  which  he  now  rejoiced  was  only  a 
motive  to  serve  God  and  his  fellow-men  with  the  more 
zeal  and  self-denial. 

The  Eev.  Alexander  Stewart  was  the  minister  of 
a  Highland  parish  in  the  end  of  the  Dr.  stewan,  of 
last  century.  He  was  a  young  man  of  ^°"^'^- 
unblemished  reputation  and  amiable  manners.  To  the 
outward  proprieties  of  his  station  there  was  nothing 
wanting.  But  the  power  of  godliness  was  unfelt.  In 
his  parish  there  was  a  scene  of  the  wildest  grandeur, 
the  Pass  of  Killiecrankie,  a  savage  defile,  just  beyond 
which  lies  the  battle-field  on  which  the  Yiscount  Dun- 
dee endeavoured  to  retrieve  the  fortunes  of  James  II. 
In  the  j-ear  1796,  Mr.  Simeon,  of  Cambridge,  and  Mr. 
James  Haldane,*  visited  the  Highlands.  They  had 
never  heard  of  Mr.  Stewart,  but  when  they  were 
leaving  Edinburgh,  a  "  random  thought"  occurred  to 
one  of  their  friends  to  introduce  them  to  the  minister 
of  Moulin,  as  they  expected  to  visit  the  Pass  of  Killie- 
crankie. On  their  way  they  visited  Dunkeld,  and, 
after  surveying  its  beauties,  intended  to  proceed  north- 

*  See  Biographical  Tract,  "Rev.  Charlea  Simeon,"  published  by  the  Religious 
Tract  Society. 


230  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

ward.  This  was  on  a  Friday.  The  carriage  was  at  the 
door  at  the  appointed  time,  but  Mr.  Simeon  was  too 
much  fatigued  to  proceed.  By  this  unexpected  cir- 
cumstance their  visit  to  the  parish  of  Moulin  took 
place  on  a  Saturday.  And  this  Saturday  was  a  high 
day  there;  it  was  the  day  preceding  the  annual  cele- 
bration of  the  Lord's  Supper.  And  the  travellers 
were  easily  persuaded  to  prolong  their  visit.  After 
feasting  their  eyes  on  the  awful  magnificence  of  the 
Pass,  and  listening  to  the  tumultuous  roar  of  the 
Garry,  storming  its  angry  way  along  the  bottom  of  the 
deep  gorge  below,  they  returned  to  enjoy  the  hospi- 
tality of  the  manse  and  to  take  part  in  the  solemnity 
of  the  following  da}^  When  on  Sabbath  evening  Mr. 
Simeon  retired  to  his  chamber,  his  host  accompanied 
him,  and  on  the  conversation  into  which  they  then  fell 
were  suspended  issues  of  the  greatest  moment.  Mr. 
Stewart  was  not  without  some  feeling  of  the  unprofit- 
ableness of  his  ministry,  and,  as  his  heart  was  drawn 
out  to  his  English  guest,  he  did  not  conceal  his 
thoughts;  while  Mr.  Simeon  spoke  to  him  from  the 
fulness  of  his  heart  of  the  grace  of  God  and  the  gos- 
pel of  Jesus  Christ.  "  I  know  nothing,"  wrote  Mr. 
Stewart  afterwards,  ''to  which  I  can  so  fully  compare 
myself,  as  to  Ezekiel's  dry  bones,  when  they  were 
covered  with  flesh  and  skin,  but  were  without  life  or 
sensation.  It  was  reserved  for  Mr.  Simeon  to  be  the 
man  who  should  be  appointed  to  prophesy  to  the  wind 
and  say,  'Come  from  the  four  winds,  O  breath,  and 
breathe  upon  this  dead  body,  that  it  may  live.'  "  How 
marvellous  in  working  is  the  providence  of  God !  Two 
strangers  from  a  distance  must  be  sent  to  Moulin; 
their  plans  must  be  once  and  again  changed  that  they 
may  be  there  at  a  season  of  peculiar  solemnity,  to 


SIMEON   AT    nORSELYDOWN.  231 

become  the  instniments  of  good  to  the  soul  of  a  man 
they  had  never  heard  of  And  the  man  thus  visited, 
by  the  grace  of  God,  became  thereafter  the  means 
of  the  conversion  of  many.  From  the  hour  when  he 
experienced  Christ  to  be  the  power  of  God  unto  salva- 
tion, the  strain  of  his  preaching  was  entirely  changed, 
lie  determined  to  know  nothing  among  men  save 
Jesus  Christ  and  him  crucified.  And  immediately 
there  appeared  in  his  parish  a  great  awakening, — one 
of  those  seasons  when  the  Spirit  of  God  comes  down 
with  Pentecostal  power.  Within  a  few  months  of  Mr. 
Simeon's  visit,  many  were  turned  to  the  Lord.  And 
only  the  eye  of  Omniscience  can  trace  in  their  course 
from  one  generation  to  another  all  the  streams  of 
blessing  which  still  flow  from  the  fountain  thus  opened. 

We  select  another  instance  from  the  life  of  Charles 
Simeon  to  illustrate  those  singular  pro- 
vidential coincidences  which  prove  the 
occasion  of  the  conversion  of  souls  to  God.  In  1783, 
just  at  the  beginning  of  his  ministry,  Mr.  Simeon  was 
invited  to  be  present  at  a  brother's  marriage  in  Lon- 
don, and  to  perform  the  ceremony.  On  his  arrival  in 
town  he  undertook  to  perform  the  "occasional  duty" 
of  a  clergyman  at  Horselydown  for  a  week.  And  on 
the  very  day  of  his  brother's  marriage,  when  a  large 
and  splendid  party  had  assembled  to  celebrate  the 
event,  notice  was  sent  to  him  that  there  would  be  a 
funeral  at  his  friend's  church.  He  was  thus  with- 
drawn from  an  uncongenial  scene  of  gayety,  and  that 
to  do  a  work  which  he  knew  not.  While  waiting  in  the 
churchyard  for  the  corpse  which  was  about  to  be  laid 
in  its  narrow  house,  he  occupied  his  time  in  reading 
the  epitaphs  on  the  tombstones.     Many  of  them  were 


232  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

such  as  might  adorn  a  Jew's  or  a  heathen's  grave. 
But  at  last  he  came  to  one  -which  characterized  a 
Christian : — 

"  When  from  the  dust  of  death  I  rise 
To  claim  my  mansion  in  the  sliies, 
E'en  then  shall  this  be  all  my  plea : — 
'  Jesus  has  lived  and  died  for  me.' " 

Struck  with  the  sentiment,  he  looked  around  to  see 
if  there  were  any  one  to  whom  God  might  render  it 
the  means  of  spiritual  instruction,  and  at  a  little  dis- 
tance he  saw  a  young  woman  "of  a  sorrowful  counte- 
nance" reading  an  epitaj^h.  She  had  ruined  her 
health  in  labouring  for  the  support  of  an  aged  mother 
and  two  children.  Having  just  been  to  a  sister  who 
lived  in  that  neighbourhood,  instead  of  receiving  help 
or  sympathy  she  had  been  sent  away  with  reproaches; 
and  now,  after  wandering  among  the  tombs  for  five 
hours,  and  regarding  herself  as  forsaken  of  God,  her 
misery  was  insupportable,  her  resolution  was  taken : 
she  would  drown  herself  Directed  by  a  Providence 
which  knew  these  things,  Mr.  Simeon  accosted  her : — 
"You  are  reading  epitaphs,  mistress:  read  that;  when 
you  can  say  the  same  from  your  heart,  you  will  be 
happy  indeed;  but  till  then  you  will  enjoy  no  real 
hapjuness  in  this  world  or  in  the  next."  She  read 
the  words  without  any  apparent  emotion,  and  coolly 
remarked  that  a  churchyard  was  a  very  proper  place 
for  her,  for  that  she  was  much  distressed.  On  hearing 
her  burden  of  domestic  care,  Mr.  Simeon  turned  to 
some  passages  in  his  Bible,  and  endeavoured  to  turn 
her  eyes  to  Him  who  gives  rest  to  heavy-laden  souls. 
The  arrival  of  the  corpse  put  an  end  to  the  conversa- 
tion, but  he  took  her  address  and  visited  her  wretched 
home,  two  miles  oif,  the  following  evening.     There  he 


WILLIAM    WILBERFORCE.  23S 

found  the  aged  mother  very  ill  of  asthma,  two  little 
babes  lying  in  bed,  and  the  young  woman  sitting  like 
a  statue  of  sorrow.  The  next  evening,  and  the  next, 
he  visited  them  again;  and  it  was  only  on  the  third 
visit  that  he  heard  the  tale  of  intended  suicide.  "  But 
now,  sir,"  concluded  the  poor  woman,  '' instead  of 
despairing  of  bread  to  eat,  I  am  enabled  to  see  that 
God,  who  is  the  Father  of  the  fatherless  and  the  Hus<- 
band  of  the  widow,  is  my  friend;  that  Jesus  Christ 
has  washed  me  fi'om  all  my  sins  in  the  fountain  of  his 
own  blood,  and  that  it  is  my  privilege  to  be  careful  for 
nothing;  and,  blessed  be  God,  I  am  enabled  to  cast 
all  my  care  on  Him  wdio  careth  for  me."  Twelve 
months  after,  Mr.  Simeon  had  the  satisfaction  to  find 
that,  while  the  aged  mother  had  died  in  the  peace  of 
the  gospel,  the  younger  widow  was  leading  a  holy  and 
consistent  life.  The  invitation  which  brought  him  to 
London  was  kindly  but  ignorantly  designed  by  his 
relations,  who  at  that  time  did  not  sympathize  with 
his  religious  feelings,  to  divert  him  from  the  over- 
intense  pursuit  of  the  objects  which  lay  nearest  to  his 
heart.  But  his  Master  had  another  design  than  theirs, 
and  gave  him  a  work  to  do  which  will  be  gratefully 
remembered  throughout  eternity. 

William  Wilberporce  had  impressions  of  reli- 
gion when,  as  a  child,  he  lived  under 
the  roof  of  a  pious  aunt  at  Wimbledon,  born  \n  huh.' 
''But  when  he  entered  Parliament  as  diel' m  London! 
member  for  his  native  borough,  Hull,  "^"^^ ^^' ^^'''^• 
he  was  utterly  without  God  in  the  world.  This,  too, 
was  his  melancholy  state  when  in  1783,  in  a  season  of 
intense  political  excitement,  he  was  returned  for  the 
county  of  York.     When  Parliament  was   prorogued 


234  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

the  following  summer,  he  went  down  to  York,  and  was 
'the  joy  of  the  races.'  He  spent  his  twenty-fifth 
birthday  at  the  top  wave  and  highest  flow  of  those 
frivolous  amusements  which  had  swallowed  up  so  large 
a  portion  of  his  youth."  Nothing  could  be  further 
from  his  thoughts  at  this  time  than  to  make  any 
arrangement  by  which  he  should  be  won  from  the 
world  and  taught  to  serve  a  better  Master.  But  it 
was  so  ordered  by  One  whose  hand  he  saw  not. 
When  at  York,  he  invited  a  friend  to  accompany  him 
in  a  continental  tour,  and  was  surprised  that  he  de- 
clined it.  He  then  invited  Isaac  Milner  in  his  stead. 
This  was  the  chance,  as  it  seemed,  by  which  the  whole 
of  his  life  was  turned  into  another  channel.  There 
was  nothing  apparently  in  the  companionship  which 
he  had  chosen  to  produce  a  new  state  of  feeling. 
''Though  Milner's  religious  opinions,"  Wilberforce 
wrote  afterwards,  "were  even  now  in  theory  much  the 
same  as  in  later  life,  yet  they  had  at  this  time  little 
practical  effect  on  his  conduct.  He  was  free  from 
every  taint  of  vice,  but  not  more  attentive  than  others 
to  religion."  Before  they  set  out  on  their  journey, 
Mr.  Wilberforce  discovered  the  opinions  of  his  com- 
panion, but  it  was  now  too  late  to  revoke  an  invita- 
tion which,  had  he  known  them  sooher,  he  never 
would  have  given.  On  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean, 
where  they  luxuriated  for  months,  they  had  frequent 
discussions  on  religious  subjects,  but  they  were  merely 
speculative.  There  was  too  little  of  the  power  of 
evangelical  religion  manifested  at  this  time  in  the  life 
of  one  who  became  afterwards  one  of  its  ornaments,  to 
give  much  weight  to  his  reasonings;  and  his  gay  and 
sprightly  friend  held  on  his  ungodly  course  unmoved. 
And  now  we  find  another  of  the  innumerable  lines 


HISTORY    OF   A   BOOK.  235 

of  providential  arrangement  made  strikingly  visible 
in  the  circumstances  which  contributed  to  Mr.  "Wilber- 
force's  conversion.  Dr.  Doddridge,  long  before  this 
time  in  his  grave,  had  been  the  friend  of  Mr.  Unwin, 
Cowper's  well-known  correspondent.  Mr.  Unwin  had 
been  the  friend  of  the  mother  of  one  of  Mr.  Wilber- 
force's  female  relatives  now  of  his  party  at  Nice,  and 
had  presented  to  her  a  copy  of  Dr.  Doddridge's  "Eise 
and  Progress  of  Eeligion  in  the  Soul."  That  copy 
lay  casually  on  a  table  in  their  winter  retreat,  just 
as  Mr.  Wilberforce  was  preparing  to  return  to  his 
Parliamentary  duties.  Casting  his  eye  over  it  hastily, 
he  asked  Milner's  opinion  of  it.  '<It  is  one  of  the 
best  books  ever  written,"  was  the  reply:  ''let  us  take 
it  with  us,  and  read  it  on  our  journey."  He  con- 
sented; they  read  it  together  carefully,  and  Wil- 
berforce determined  to  examine  the  Scriptures  for 
himself  at  some  future  season,  and  see  if  things 
were  stated  there  in  the  same  manner.  On  his  arrival 
in  England,  all  concern  about  religion  was  swallowed 
up  in  the  excitement  of  politics  and  in  a  constant 
round  of  company  and  amusement.  The  villa  at 
Wimbledon,  where  his  infant  lips  had  been  taught 
hosannas  by  his  pious  aunt,  was  now  his  own,  and 
resounded  with  songs  of  another  order.  There  many 
an  evening  assembly  filled  with  its  gay  festivities  the 
former  abode  of  peaceful  piety. 

The  following  summer,  however,  Wilberforce  and 
Milner  returned  to  Italy,  and  their  conversation  be- 
came more  serious  than  before.  They  began  to  read  the 
Greek  Testament  together,  and  to  examine  its  doc- 
trines. By  degrees  Wilberforce  became  interested  in 
the  opinions  of  his  companion,  and  at  length  became 
impressed  with  a  sense  of  their  practical  importance. 


236  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

"  Often  (he  saj's)  while  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  all 
that  this  world  could  bestow,  my  conscience  told  me 
that  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word  I  was  not  a  Christian. 
I  laughed,  I  sang,  I  was  apparently  gay  and  happy  j 
but  the  thought  would  steal  across  me,  'What  mad- 
ness is  all  this!  to  continue  easy  in  a  state  in  which  a 
sudden  call  out  of  the  world  would  consign  me  to 
everlasting  misery,  and  that  when  eternal  happiness 
was  within  my  grasp!'"  At  length  such  thoughts  as 
these  completely  occupied  his  mind,  and  he  began  to 
pray  earnestly.  When  he  reflected  on  these  subjects, 
''the  deep  guilt  and  black  ingratitude"  of  his  past 
life  forced  itself  upon  him  in  the  strongest  colours, 
and  he  condemned  himself  for  having  wasted  his 
precious  time  and  opportunities  and  talents.  "It  was 
not  so  much,"  he  said,  "the  fear  of  punishment  by 
which  I  was  affected,  as  a  sense  of  my  great  sinfulness 
in  having  so  long  neglected  the  unspeakable  mercies 
of  my  God  and  Saviour;  and  such  was  the  effect  which 
this  thought  produced,  that  for  months  I  was  in  a 
state  of  the  deepest  depression  from  strong  convictions 
of  my  guilt."  His  guilty  conscience  soon  found  peace, 
however,  through  faith  in  an  all-sufficient  Saviour. 
And  when  he  made  a  frank  avowal  of  the  change 
which  he  had  undergone  to  those  who  had  hitherto 
been  the  companions  of  his  thoughtlessness,  some 
treated  the  announcement  as  the  effect  of  a  temporary 
depression,  which  social  intercourse  would  soon  relieve; 
one  threw  his  letter  angrily  in  the  fire;  others,  know- 
ing that  his  past  life  had  not  been  vicious,  imagined 
that  he  could  but  turn  ascetic.  But  it  was  not 
so;  Mr.  Wilberforce  did  not  "flee  from  men's  pur- 
suits" to  cultivate  a  hot-house  piety,  but  devoted 
his  life   to    manful    struggles   with   the    great   evils 


THE    CURATE    OF    BRADING.  237 

of  his  time;  an'd  with  what  success  the  history  of 
his  country  will  long  record.  The  freedom  of  the 
negro  in  the  British  colonies  is  his  nohlest  monu- 
ment; and  in  his  example  both  the  loftiest  potentate 
and  the  humblest  peasant  may  find  instruction  and 
blessing. 

A  few  months  after  the  publication  of  Wilberforce's 
''Practical  View  of  Christianity/'  in  1797,  a  young 
Cambridge  man  entered  on  the  curacies  of  Brading 
and  Yaverland,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight.  He  was  orthodox 
and  moral;  the  regularity  and  decorum  with  which  he 
discharged  his  duties  far  exceeded  those  of  many.  A 
college  friend,  who  was  about  to  take  orders,  received 
Mr.  AVilberforce's  book  from  a  near  relative,  and  sent 
it  to  the  curate  of  Brading  for  his  opinion  of  it.  The 
young  clergyman  no  sooner  began  to  read  it  than  he 
found  himself  so  deeply  interested  in  its  contents,  that 
the  volume  was  not  laid  down  till  the  perusal  of  it 
was  completed.  "  The  soul  of  the  reader  was  penetrated 
to  its  inmost  recesses.  A  change  was  effected  in  his 
views  of  divine  truth,  as  decided  as  it  was  influential. 
He  was  no  longer  satisfied  with  the  creed  of  the 
speculatist;  he  felt  a  conviction  of  his  own  state  as  a 
guilty,  condemned  sinner,  and  under  that  conviction 
he  sought  mercy  at  the  cross  of  the  Saviour.  There 
arose  in  his  mind  a  solemn  consciousness  that  however 
outwardly  moral  and  apparently  irreproachable  his 
conduct  might  appear  to  men,  yet  within  there  was 
wanting  that  entire  surrender  of  the  heart,  that 
ascendency  of  God  in  the  soul,  and  that  devotedness 
of  life  and  conduct,  which  distinguishes  holiness  from 
morality,  and  the  external  profession  of  religion  from 
its  inward  and  transforming  power."     It  was  in  this 


238  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

unlooked-for  manner  that  Mr.  Legh  Eichmond   re- 
ceived  his  first   sacred   impressions,  to 

mond ;  born  Jan. 
29,    1772;       . 
May  8, 1827. 


Legh     Eieh-     ^g^  j^j^  ^^^  words,  as  to  the  vital  charac- 


■",'i827.^'^'^  ter  of  personal  religion,  the  corruption 
of  the  human  heart,  and  the  way  of  sal- 
vation by  Jesus  Christ.  The  stream  of  blessing  which 
the  "Dairyman's  Daughter,"  and  other  "Annals  of 
the  Poor,"  convey  to  the  cabins  and  hamlets  of  the 
peasantry  of  England,  had  its  fountain-head  in  the 
regenerate  heart  of  the  Christian  senator,  and  was 
directed  to  the  parsonage  of  Brading  by  one  who  was 
altogether  unconscious  of  the  providential  importance 
of  what  he  was  doing.* 

Fourteen  years  after  "Wilberforce's  book  was  pub- 
lished, a  Scottish  clergyman  sat  in  his  quiet  parsonage, 
brooding  over  his  spiritual  state,  seeking  comfort  and 
finding  none.'j'  He  was  a  man  of  mighty  eloquence 
and  high  literary  ambition.  Hitherto  he  had  preached 
a  gospel  which  contained  little  more  that  was  adapted 
to  man's  condition  than  what  Seneca  and  other  heathen 
moralists  had  taught.  But  death  had  visited  his 
father's  house,  and  the  hand  of  God  was  on  his  own 
person.  Eternity  had  now  acquired  a  befitting  import- 
ance in  his  esteem,  and  he  set  himself  manfully  to 
prepare  for  its  awful  realities.  But  he  knew  not  how. 
There  was  a  certain  class  of  doctrines  which  were  very 
precious  to  a  venerable  father  and  had  given  much 
comfort  to  a  dying  brother  and  sister.  These  doc- 
trines, however,  had  been  often  denounced  from  his 
pulpit  as  visionary  and  fanatical.  The  awakened 
clergyman  set  himself  to  work  out  a  righteousness  of 


*  See  Biographical   Tract,  "  William  Wilberforce,"  published   by  the  Religious 
Tract  Society.  t  Ibid. 


THOMAS    CHALMERS.  239 

his  own.  He  attempted  in  an  agonj^  of  soul  to  ''scale 
the  heights  of  perfection,  to  quell  the  remonstrances 
of  a  challenging  and  not  jet  appeased  commandment;" 
but  it  was  "like  the  laborious  ascent  of  him  who, 
having  so  wasted  his  strength  that  he  can  do  no  more, 
finds  that  some  precipice  still  remains  to  be  overcome, 
some  mountain-brow  that  scorns  his  enterprise  and 
threatens  to  overwhelm  him."  He  tried  to  mix  the 
merit  of  Christ  with  the  sincerity  of  his  repentance 
and  the  pains-taking  of  his  obedience;  yet  his  soul 
knew  no  solid  peace.  In  his  father's  house  he  found 
Wilberforce's  "  Practical  View,"  and,  in  his  own 
humble  manse,  he  pored  over  its  pages  with  an  interest 
which  such  books  had  never  aAvakened  before.  As  he 
read,  ''he  felt  himself  on  the  eve  of  a  great  revolution 
in  all  his  opinions  about  Christianity;  and,  by  the 
grace  of  God,  this  revolution  was  happily  consummated. 
The  gospel  which  he  had  before  despised  now  gave 
peace  and  hfe  to  his  own  soul;  and 
Thomas  Chalmers  became  the  spiritual  bo?n  Mlrch^iV! 
son  of  William  Wilberforce.  There  is  no  Z^°Uf.^^  ^^^ 
name  with  which  the  revival  of  evan- 
gelical religion  in  Scotland  is  more  closely  associated 
than  that  of  Chalmers ;  and  if  Mr.  Wilberforce's  book 
had  been  the  means  of  no  other  conversion  than  his, 
its  publication  would  have  been  an  event  of  histoi-ical 
importance. 

The  reader  may  pause  to  retrace  the  stream  of  holy 
influence  which  thus  widens  and  deepens  as  it  flows 
on  in  its  blessed  course.  A  gay  young  man,  a  man  of 
mark  and  wealth,  asks  a  friend  to  join  him  on  a  con- 
tinental tour.  The  friend  declines,  and  the  request 
is  made  to  another,  who  consents.     The  man  whose 


240  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

society  is  thus  casually  sought  holds  certain  opinions, 
the  discovery  of  which,  had  it  been  made  earlier,  would 
have  prevented  the  request  being  made  to  him.  A 
lady  friend  and  relative  carries  with  her  to  their 
winter  quarters  on  the  Mediterranean  a  copy  of  Dod- 
dridge's ''Else  and  Progress  of  Eeligion  in  the 
Soul,"  which  Cowper's  fx'iend,  Unwin,  (a  cotemporary 
and  friend  of  the  author,)  had  presented  to  her 
mother.  The  gay  Wilberforce,  in  an  idle  hour,  takes 
up  the  volume  and  asks  his  friend's  opinion  of  it.  He 
is  told  it  is  one  of  the  best  books  ever  written,  and 
consents  to  read  it.  And  the  reading  determines  him 
to  examine  the  Scriptures  for  himself  and  see  whether 
the  teachings  of  Doddridge's  book  are  true.  "Wilber- 
force ere  long  becomes  a  devout  Christian,  and 
addresses  the  world  with  all  the  earnestness  of  his 
fervid  nature  on  the  defective  views  of  religion  which 
generally  prevailed  around  him.  His  book  comes  into 
the  hands  of  Legh  Eichmond  in  a  way  as  undesigned 
as  was  the  association  of  Wilberforce  and  ]\£ilner;  and 
in  a  manner  equally  undesigned  it  is  taken  up  by 
Thomas  Chalmers  at  the  very  moment  when  it  is  most 
likely  to  affect  his  heart  and  enlighten  his  mind;  and 
both  of  them  become  converts  to  the  truth  as  it  is  in 
Jesus. 

This  complication  of  lines  of  influence,  intersecting 
each  other,  and,  chanceful  as  they  seem  to  be,  pro- 
ducing results  so  great,  becomes  the  more  remarkable 
when  it  is  remembered  that  the  life  of  Philip  Dod- 
dridge was  preserved  when  he  was  an  infant  by  what 
wo  call  the  merest  chance.  Philip  Doddridge  was  the 
twentieth  child  of  his  parents,  and  at  his  birth  there 
was  only  one  other  child  surviving.  When  born  he 
was  60  destitute  of  any  appearance  of  vitality,  that  the 


ROBERT    UALDANE.  241 

attendants  thought  the  child  dead,  and  hiid  it  aside 
accordingly.  One  of  them,  however,  soon  afterwards 
happening  to  cast  a  glance  upon  the  infant,  fancied  that 
she  perceived  a  feeble  heaving  of  its  chest,  and  took 
upon  herself  the  apparently  futile  task  of  its  resus- 
citation. Her  care  was  providentially  rewarded;  for, 
Avhile  she  continued  to  cherish  it,  a  faint  moaning 
became  audible,  evincing  that  the  babe  was  indeed 
alive ;  and  thus,  apparent!}^  by  accident,  was  that  voice 
called  into  action  on  whose  eloquent  accents  thousands 
afterwards  hung  in  hushed  delight,  while  their  hearts 
grew  warm  with  the  holy  love  of  God.  How  much 
had  the  world  lost  if  that  babe  had  been  carried  from 
the  chamber  of  his  birth  to  his  grave !  The  eternal 
God  could  raise  up  other  instruments  to  accomplish 
his  purposes,  but  this  feeble  infant  was  the  instrument 
on  which  he  had  ordained  so  much  to  depend;  and  in 
the  accident  by  which  it  was  preserved  fi-om  an  un- 
timely grave  we  see  his  hand  as  plainly  working  as  in 
the  most  startling  miracle  of  Holy  Writ.  How  true 
it  is  that  the  chances  of  life  "constitute  a  supei-stratum 
in  the  system  of  human  affairs,  wherein  peculiarly  the 
Divine  Providence  holds  empire  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  its  special  purposes  I" 

EoBERT   Haldane   retired   from   the   navy  at  the 
early  age  of  twenty,  and  spent  the  next      Eobt.Haidane; 

3oru  in  London, 
Feb.  28,  1764; 
died  in  Edin- 
burgh,   Dee.   12, 

honoured  by  his  friends  and  neighbours,     ^^^2. 
but  careless  of  his  spiritual  interests.     The  providen- 
tial means  by  which  he  was  awakened  from  the  sleep 
of  spiritual  death  was  the  excitement  of  the  French 
[Revolution.     That  great   political  convulsion  came 

16 


242  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

upon  Europe  like  an  earthquake,  casting  down  thrones, 
mitres,  and  altars,  mingling  in  one  heap  of  ruins  the 
trophies  of  feudal  grandeur  and  the  monuments  of 
sacerdotal  tj^ranny.  Like  most  young  men  of  ardent, 
generous,  and  energetic  minds,  Eobert  Haldane  was 
roused  as  from  a  lethargy  by  the  events  passing 
around  him.  He  saw,  or  imagined  he  saw,  looming 
through  the  mist,  the  pi'ospect  of  a  new  and  better 
order  of  things.  He  admitted  that  good  and  evil  were 
wildly  contending  for  the  mastery,  but  he  was  sanguine 
as  to  the  result,  and  dropped  out  of  his  calculation  the 
corruption  of  human  nature,  and  the  hopelessness  of 
any  solid  reformation  apart  from  the  influence  of  a 
divine  agency. 

No  sooner  was  Eobert  Haldane's  mind  directed  to 
"the  concerns  of  his  immortal  soul,"  than  he  pursued 
the  momentous  subject  with  characteristic  intensity. 
And  we  can  trace  the  providence  of  God  in  his  inter- 
course at  this  juncture  with  enlightened  Christian 
ministers,  and  esj)ecially  in  what  will  be  called  his 
casual  intercourse  with  a  journeyman  mason  that  was 
working  on  his  estate.  This  good  man  was  well  read 
in  his  Bible  and  in  the  hest  old  Scottish  divines.  While 
the  mason  and  his  employer  were  walking  from  one 
part  of  the  estate  to  another,  the  conversation  turned 
from  the  subject  of  masonry  to  the  glory  of  the  great 
Architect  of  the  universe.  The  views  of  divine  truth, 
and  of  faith  in  the  finished  work  of  Christ,  which  this 
humble  but  intelligent  Christian  unfolded  as  they  went 
along,  were  so  plain  and  scriptural,  that  Mr.  Haldane 
saw  the  gospel  to  be  indeed  glad  tidings,  and  ever 
afterwards  looked  back  with  thankfulness  to  that 
memorable  v^alk,  ''in  which  he  began  to  discern  more 
clearly  that,  in  the  matter  of  justification,  faith  must 


HALDANE   IN    GENEVA.  243 

cast  away  all  reliance  on  the  shifting  sands  of  frames 
and  feelings,  and  fasten  only  upon  the  Eock  of  ages."* 

The  name  of  Eobert  Haldane  is  identified  with  the 
revival  of  scriptural  Christianity  on  the  continent  of 
Europe,  and  the  circumstances  are  perhaps  still  more 
strikingly  providential  than  even  those  of  his  own 
conversion. 

In  the  beginning  of  this  century  the  city  of  Geneva 
had  fallen  from  her  ancestral  faith,  and  j^^bt.  Haidano 
proved  how  vain  are  historic  names  and  *»  Geneva, 
scriptural  formularies  when  the  sj)irit  has  ceased  to 
animate  the  lifeless  frame.  Her  pastors  and  professors 
had  abandoned  the  doctrines  of  the  Godhead  and 
atonement  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  were  Arians 
and  Socinians.  Her  Sabbaths  were  profaned  and 
trampled  under  feet.  On  God's  holy  day  the  theatres 
were  opened,  and  even  the  pastors  on  certain  solemn 
festivals  dismissed  their  congregations  earlier  that  they 
might  themselves  participate  in  the  festivities  of  the 
Lord's  day,  which  was  closed  with  fireworks  and  the 
discharge  of  cannon.  It  was  at  this  period  of  its 
history  (in  1816)  that  Eobert  Haldane  passed  through 
the  ancient  gates  of  Geneva,  not  to  gratify  his  tastes 
as  a  traveller,  but  to  make  known  the  blessed  gospel. 
But  how  was  he  to  discharge  his  mission  ? 

On  his  arrival  he  called  on  a  pastor  who  was  under- 
stood to  hold  Bible  truth  in  reference  to  the  person 
and  work  of  our  Lord,  and  was  kindly  received.  The 
pastor  acquiesced  in  all  the  views  of  his  visitor,  but  he 
seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  an  easy  or  immovable 
temper,  with  whom  no  progress  could  be  made.  Mr. 
Haldane  quitted  Geneva  for  Berne,  where,  for  eight 

*  See  Biogiaphical  Tract,  "Bobeit  and  James  Ilaldane,"  published  by  the  Keli- 
gioua  Tnict  Society. 


2J:-i  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

days,  lie  was  permitted  to  converse  with  a  pastor  who 
was  ud  Ariaii  or  Socinian,  and  was  willing  to  hear  con- 
cerning the  great  truths  of  the  gospel.  He  was  about 
to  quit  Geneva  a  second  time,  hopeless  of  finding  any- 
one with  whom  he  might  converse  on  gospel  truth, 
when  a  trivial  circumstance,  as  men  judge,  was  the 
means  of  opening  a  wide  and  effectual  door.  "M. 
Moulin ie  had  politelj^  offered  to  conduct  Mrs.  Haldane 
to  see  the  model  of  the  mountains,  a  little  way  out  of 
town,  and  with  this  object  he  promised  to  call  on  us 
(says  Mr.  H.)  the  day  following.  In  the  morning,  how- 
ever, we  received  a  note  from  him,  saying  that,  having 
suffered  from  a  severe  headache  during  the  night,  he 
was  himself  unable  to  come,  but  had  sent  a  young 
man,  a  student  of  divinity,  who  would  be  our  con- 
ductor. On  this  providential  circumstance  depended 
my  continuance  at  Geneva,  which  I  had  been  on  the 
point  of  leaving.     With  this  student  I 

M.James,  evan-       7  . 

geiieai -pastor  at  immediately  entered  into  conversation 
respecting  the  gospel,  of  which  I  found 
him  profoundly  ignorant,  although  in  a  state  of  mind 
which  showed  that  he  was  willing  to  receive  informa- 
tion. He  returned  with  me  to  the  inn  and  remained 
till  late   at  night.     Next  mornino-   he 

m.  Charles Rieu.  .,,  ^^  ,  ,?      . 

came  with  another  student,  equally  m 
darkness  with  himself  I  questioned  them  respecting 
their  personal  hope  of  salvation,  and  the  foundation 
of  that  hope.  Had  they  been  trained  in  the  schools 
of  Socrates  or  Plato,  and  enjoyed  no  other  means  of  in- 
struction, they  could  scarcely  have  been  more  ignorant 
of  the  doctrines  of  the  gospel.  They  had,  in  fact, 
learned  much  more  of  the  opinions  of  the  heathen  phi- 
losophers than  of  the  doctrines  of  the  Saviour  and  his 
apostles.     To  the  Bible  and  its  contents  their  studies 


MERLE   d'AUBIGN13  AND   OTHERS.  245 

had  never  been  directed.  After  some  conversation, 
they  became  convinced  of  their  ignorance  of  the  Scrip- 
tures and  of  the  way  of  salvation,  and  exceedingly 
desirous  of  information.  I  therefore  postponed  my 
intended  departure  fi'om  Geneva." 

Within  a  few  weeks  from  this  period  we  find  Mr. 
Haldane  surrounded  by  almost  all  the  students  of 
the  Theological  Seminary,  who  braved  the  frowns  and 
threats  of  their  professors,  and  received  from  him  a 
course  of  conversational  prelections  on  the  Epistle  to 
the  Eomans,  till  the  period  of  their  vacation  in  the 
summer  of  1817.  And  not  a  few  of  these  students 
were  converted  to  Christ.  Of  these,  Eieu,  Pyt,  and 
Gonthier  have  long  since  finished  a  brief  but  brilliant 
course  with  joy.  And  there  yet  remain  Frederick 
Monod,  Merle  D'Aubigne,  Gaussen,  Galland,  Guers, 
James,  and  others,  to  testify  how  great  the  work  was 
of  which  Mr.  Haldane  was  providentially  the  instru- 
ment. "The  work,"  says  M.  Monod,  writing  thirty- 
six  years  after,  "which  Mr.  Haldane  began  in  1817 
has  been  advancing  ever  since,  and  the  extent  of  it 
will  not  be  known  until  the  day  of  the  revelation 
of  all  things." 

The  well-known  author  of  the  "History  of  the  Ee- 
formation,"  to  whose  writings  the  world  is  so  deeply 
indebted,  has  himself  stated  the  providential  circum- 
stances which  led  to  his  conversion.  "When  I  and 
M.  Monod  attended  the  University  of 
Geneva,  there  was  a  professor  of  divi-  ^^^4]^  "'^'^' 
nity  who  confined  himself  to  lecturing 
on  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  the  existence  of  God, 
and  similar  topics.  As  to  the  Trinity,  he  did  not  be- 
lieve it.  Instead  of  the  Bible,  he  gave  us  quotations 
from  Seneca  and  Plato.     St.  Seneca  and  St.  Plato  were 


246  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

the  two  saints  whose  writings  he  held  up  to  admira- 
tion." And  thoroughly  did  the  disciple  whose  words 
we  are  quoting  enter  into  the  opinions  and  sj)irit  of 
his  master.  About  the  time  of  Mr.  Haldane's  arrival 
in  Geneva  there  appeared  a  pamphlet,  entitled  "  Con- 
siderations on  the  Divinity  of  Jesus  Christ/'  by  Henri 
Empcytaz.  This  pamphlet  produced  great  excitement 
among  the  students  in  theology,  to  whom  it  was  ad- 
dressed. They  assembled  in  the  "  gi'and  hall,"  chose 
for  their  president  one  of  their  own  number,  and  ad- 
dressed to  the  "  Venerable  Company"  a  letter  in  which 
they  solemnly  protested  against  what  they  termed  the 
"odious  aggression."  The  foremost  man  on  this  occa- 
sion, the  chosen  president  of  the  assembled  students, 
was  no  other  than  Merle  D' Aubigne.  "  But  the  Lord 
sent  one  of  his  servants  to  Greneva,"  he  says,  "and  I 
well  remember  the  visit  of  Eobert  Haldane.  I  heard 
of  him  first  as  an  English  or  Scotch  gentleman  who 
spoke  much  about  the  Bible,  which  seemed  a  very 
strange  thing  to  me  and  the  other  students,  to  whom 
it  was  a  shut  book.  I  afterwards  met  Mr.  Haldane  at 
a  private  house,  along  with  some  other  friends,  and 
heard  him  read  from  an  English  Bible  a  chapter  from 
ilomans,  about  the  natural  corruption  of  man, — a  doc- 
trine of  which  I  had  never  before  heard.  In  fact,  I 
was  quite  astonished  to  hear  of  men  being  corrupt  by 
nature.  I  remember  saying  to  Mr.  Haldane,  '  Now  I 
see  that  doctrine  in  the  Bible.'  'Yes,'  he  replied; 
'  but  do  you  see  it  in  your  heart  ?'  That  was  but  a 
simple  question,  but  it  came  home  to  my  conscience. 
It  was  the  sword  of  the  Spirit ;  and  from  that  time  I 
saw  that  my  heart  was  corrupted,  and  knew  fi'om  the 
word  of  God  that  I  can  be  saved  by  grace  alone :  so 
that  if  Geneva  gave  something  to  Scotland  at  the  time 


JOHN   WILLIAMS.  247 

of  the  Eeformation, — if  she  communicated  liglit  to 
John  Knox, — Geneva  has  received  something  from 
Scotland  in  return,  in  the  blessed  exertions  of  Eobert 
Haldane." 

The  missionary  John  Williams,  known  as  the  Mar- 
tyr of  Erromanga,  enjoyed  from  child- 
hood the  advantage  of  Christian  instruc-  born^rTourn: 
tion  and  example,  his  mother  being  a  i^^';dicaltB^. 
woman  of  consistent  and  earnest  piety;  H^'asl^'  ^°^' 
and  his  constant  observance  of  private 
devotion  awakened  the  hope  that  maternal  prayers 
were  not  in  vain.  In  his  fourteenth  year  he  came 
into  London,  and  w^as  apprenticed  to  an  ironmonger 
in  the  City  Eoad.  Happily,  he  was  surrounded  in  his 
new  home  with  the  same  spiritual  influences  which 
rendered  his  mother's  house  a  school  for  Christ.  His 
skill  in  workmanship,  and  his  genial,  obliging  dispo- 
sition, soon  rendered  him  a  universal  favourite.  But, 
although  John  Williams  was  an  upright  and  estimable 
youth,  "one  thing"  he  lacked.  The  promise  of  his 
early  years  had  not  been  realized.  Those  blossoms 
which  in  childhood  awakened  the  hope  of  his  mother 
did  not  set.  With  "godly  jealousy"  she  marked  the 
progress  of  his  mind,  and  perceived  with  pain  the 
decay  of  those  serious  impressions  which  she  had 
once  beheld  with  so  much  joy.  Under  these  circum- 
stances she  could  do  little  more  than  continue  to  com- 
mend her  child  to  God,  and,  when  on  the  Sabbath-day 
he  visited  his  family,  to  improve  the  opportunity  for 
restoring  those  thoughts  and  feelings  the  traces  of 
which  were  now  becoming  every  year  more  illegible. 
But  these  efforts  appeared  to  be  in  vain.  Amidst  all 
that  was  affectionate  and  respectful  to  herself,  Mrs 


248  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

"Williams  saw  but  too  clearly  that  "  his  heart  was  not 
right  with  God."  One  obvious  indication  of  this  was 
his  growing  disregard  to  the  Sabbath  and  its  sacred  ser- 
vices. He  was,  according  to  his  own  after-testimony, 
a  lover  of  pleasure  more  than  a  lover  of  God,  and  often 
scoifed  at  the  name  of  Christ  and  his  religion. 

In  his  eighteenth  year  John  Williams  appeared  to 
be  rapidly  sinking  down  into  a  state  of  settled  '^  hard- 
ness and  impenitence  of  heart."  His  Christian  friends 
looked  on  with  sorrow  and  solicitude ;  and  these  feel- 
ings were  augmented  by  the  discovery  that  he  had 
become  the  associate  of  several  irreligious  young  men, 
and  had  recently  more  than  ever  disregarded  the  Sab- 
bath and  forsaken  the  sanctuary.  His  position  now 
was  most  perilous;  and  even  his  mother's  entreaties 
had  become  too  feeble  to  restrain  him.  But  prayer 
was  made  by  her  on  his  behalf  continually,  and  God 
heard  her  cry.     The  circumstances  were  these. 

In  conformity  with  what  had  now  become  a  com- 
mon practice,  John  Williams  had  engaged  to  spend  a 
Sabbath  evening  with  several  of  his  young  associates 
at  a  tea-garden  near  his  master's  residence,  or,  more 
correctly,  at  a  tavern  connected  with  one  of  these 
scenes  of  Sabbath  desecration  and  sensual  indulgence. 
But,  happily,  his  giddy  companions  did  not  keep  their 
time.  Had  -they  been  as  punctual  as  himself,  that 
evening  would  have  been  spent  in  the  tavern.  But, 
providentially,  while  he  was  sauntering  near  the  place 
of  meeting,  greatly  annoyed  by  their  delay,  and  by 
the  observation  of  those  who  knew  his  face  and  were 
hastening  to  the  house  of  God,  Mrs.  Tonkin,  his  mas- 
ter's wife,  came  by,  and,  on  discerning  his  features  by 
the  light  of  a  lamp,  inquired  the  reason  of  his  remain- 
ing there.     This  he  frankly  avowed,  and  at  the  same 


WILLIAMS   ARRESTED.  249 

time  expressed  great  vexation  at  Ms  disappointment ; 
when,  with  affectionate  earnestness,  this  pious  friend 
endeavoured  to  induce  him  to  accompany  her  to  the 
Tabernacle  in  Moorfields.  He  yielded  to  her  impor- 
tunity, but  rather  from  a  feeling  of  mortification  than 
from  any  better  principle.  And  few  ever  entered  the 
house  of  God  less  prepared  to  profit  by  its  services. 
The  preacher's  text  was  the  weighty  question,  "  What 
is  a  man  profited,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world 
and  lose  his  own  soul?  or  what  shall  a  man  give  in 
exchange  for  his  soul?"  This  solemn  inquiry  was 
carried  home  by  the  preacher  with  point  and  energy, 
and  the  word  came  with  power  and  with  the  demon- 
stration of  the  Holy  Spirit  upon  the  mind  of  his 
youthful  auditor.  This  was  a  night  to  be  remem- 
bered ;  and  it  was  remembered  with  vividness  and 
interest.  Speaking  of  it  from  the  same  pulpit,  when 
he  was  about  to  leave  his  country  a  second  time  to 
preach  the  gospel  in  Polynesia,  he  said,  "It  is  now 
twenty-four  years  ago  since,  as  a  stripling  youth,  a 
kind  female  friend  invited  me  to  come  into  this  place 
of  worship.  I  have  the  door  in  my  view  at  this 
moment  at  which  I  entered,  and  I  have  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  that  important  era  of  my  history 
vividly  impressed  upon  my  mind,  and  I  have  in  my 
eye  at  this  instant  the  particular  spot  on  which  I 
took  my  seat.  I  have  also  a  distinct  impression  of 
the  powerful  sermon  that  was  that  evening  preached 
by  the  excellent  Mr.  East,  now  of  Birmingham ;  and 
God  was  pleased,  in  his  gracious  providence,  to  influ- 
ence my  mind  so  powerfully  that  I  forsook  all  my 
worldly  companions."  ~Nov  was  this  the  only  effect. 
"  From  that  hour,"  he  wrote  subsequently,  "  my  blind 
eyes  were  opened,  and  I  beheld  wondrous  things  out 


250  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

of  God's  law.  I  diligently  attended  the  means  of 
grace.  I  saw  that  beaut}^  and  reality  in  religion 
which  I  had  never  seen  before.  My  love  to  it  and  de- 
light in  it  increased ;  and  I  may  add,  in  the  language 
of  the  aj)0stle,  that  I  '  grew  in  grace,  and  in  the  know- 
ledge of  my  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.'  "  Old 
things  had  passed  away ;  all  things  had  become  new. 
And  from  that  hour  the  young  discij^le  manifested 
great  decision  of  character.  His  convictions  were 
converted  at  once  into  practical  principles;  and  his 
early  piety  was  marked  by  the  same  simplicity  and 
firmness  which  distinguished  and  dignified  his  more 
matured  experience. 

When  the  work  "Missionary  Enterprises  in  the 
South  Sea  Islands"  was  published  in  1837,  the  book 
was  very  appropriately  called,  by  an  English  prelate, 
a  new  chapter  of  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles.  And  if  in 
the  call  of  this  modern  apostle  there  was  no  super- 
natural appearance  of  the  ascended  Lord,  such  as 
arrested  the  youthful  Saul  on  his  way  to  Damascus, 
it  was  the  providence  of  that  Lord  that  directed  and 
used  the  commonest  accidents  of  life  to  turn  him  from 
the  vanities  of  the  world,  that  he  might  go  far  hence 
among  the  Gentiles  to  preach  the  unsearchable  riches 
of  Christ.  The  work  which  was  assigned  him  he 
ceased  not  to  perform  till  he  fell  beneath  the  club 
of  the  savage  on  the  shores  of  Erromanga. 

If  John  Williams  may  be  called  the  Apostle  of  Poly- 
nesia, Dr.  Judson  has  equal  claim  to  be  called  the 
Apostle  of  Burmah.  And  his  decision  for  God  may 
be  ascribed  to  a  circumstance  equally  fortuitous  with 
that  which  turned  the  feet  of  John  Williams  into  the 
Tabernacle  at  Moorfields. 


DR.  JUDSOX.  251 

Young  Judson  is  described  as  possessed  of  an  acute 
intellect,  with  great  powers  of  acquisition 

1  a  .  TT-     j^  Dr.        Judson: 

and  unflagging  perseverence.    His  temper     bom  m  Massa- 
was  amiable,  but  his  natural  love  of  pre-     ivssrdrc/Apra 

11  1  1         12,  1850. 

eminence  was  unduly  encouraged  and 
fostered  by  his  father,  who  fondly  but  unwisel}"  told 
him  he  expected  him  to  become  a  great  man.  When 
about  fourteen  years  of  age,  his  studies  were  inter- 
rupted by  a  serious  attack  of  illness,  and  for  a  year 
after  he  was  unable  to  resume  his  wonted  occupations. 
When  the  violence  of  the  disease  subsided,  he  spent 
many  long  days  and  nights  in  reflecting  upon  his 
future  course.  His  plans  were  of  the  most  extra- 
vagantly ambitious  character.  Now  he  was  an  orator, 
now  a  poet,  now  a  statesman  3  but,  whatever  his 
character  or  profession,  he  was  sure  in  his  castle- 
building  to  attain  to  the  highest  eminence.  After  a 
time  one  thought  crept  into  his  mind  and  embittered 
all  his  musings.  Suppose  he  should  attain  to  the 
highest  pinnacle  of  which  human  nature  is  capable: 
what  then?  Could  he  hold  his  honour  forever? 
What  would  it  be  to  him,  when  a  hundred  years  had 
gone  by,  that  America  had  never  known  his  equal? 
He  did  not  wonder  that  Alexander  wept  when  at  the 
summit  of  his  ambition;  he  felt  very  sure  that  he 
should  have  wept  too.  Then  he  would  become 
alarmed  at  the  extent  of  his  own  wicked  soarings,  and 
try  to  comfort  himself  with  the  idea  that  it  was  all 
the  result  of  the  fever  in  his  brain. 

One  day  his  mind  reverted  to  religious  pursuits. 
Yes,  an  eminent  divine  was  very  well:  though  he 
should  of  course  prefer  something  more  brilliant. 
Gradually,  and  without  his  being  aware  of  his  own 
train  of  thought,  his  mind  instituted  a  comparison 


252  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

between  the  great  worldl}^  divine,  toiling  for  the  same 
perisliable  objects  as  his  other  favourites,  and  the 
humble  minister  of  the  gospel,  labouring  only  to 
please  God  and  benefit  his  fellow-men.  There  was 
(so  he  thought)  a  sort  of  sublimity  about  that,  after 
all.  Surely  the  world  was  all  wrong,  or  such  a  self- 
abjuring  man  would  be  its  hero!  Ah!  but  the  good 
man  had  a  reputation  more  enduring.  Yes,  yes,  his 
fame  was  sounded  before  him  as  he  entered  the  other 
world;  and  that  was  the  only  fame  worthy  of  the 
possession,  because  the  only  one  that  triumphed  over 
the  grave.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  self-gratula- 
tion,  the  words  flashed  across  his  mind,  "Not  unto 
us,  not  unto  us,  but  unto  thy  name,  give  glory."  He 
was  confounded.  Not  that  he  had  actually  made 
himself  the  representative  of  this  last  kind  of  great- 
ness; it  was  not  sufficiently  to  his  taste  for  that:  but 
he  had  ventured  on  dangerous  ground,  and  he  was 
startled  by  a  flood  of  feelings  that  had  till  now  re- 
mained dormant.  He  had  always  said  and  thought,  so 
far  as  he  had  thought  any  thing  about  it,  that  he 
wished  to  become  truly  religious;  but  now  religion 
seemed  so  entirely  opposed  to  all  his  ambitious  plans, 
that  he  was  afraid  to  look  into  his  heart,  lest  he 
should  discover,  what  he  did  not  like  to  confess,  even 
to  himself,  that  he  did  not  want  to  become  a  Christian. 
He  was  fully  awake  to  the  vanity  of  worldly  pursuits, 
and  was  on  the  whole  prepared  to  yield  the  palm  of 
excellence  to  religious  ones;  but  his  father  had  often 
said  he  would  one  day  be  a  great  man,  and  a  great 
man  he  had  resolved  to  be. 

The  transition  from  this  state  of  mind  to  infidelity 
was  very  easy.  French  infidelity  was  at  this  period 
sweeping  over  the  land  like  a  flood.     At  Providence 


JUDSON    SKEPTICAL.  253 

College  there  was  a  young  man,  who  was  amiable, 
talented,  witty,  exceedingly  agreeable  in  person  and 
manners,  but  a  confirmed  deist.  A  very  strong  friend- 
ship sprang  up  betAveen  the  two  young  men,  founded 
on  similar  tastes  and  sympathies,  and  Judson  soon 
became,  at  least  professedly,  as  great  an  unbeliever  as 
his  friend.  The  subject  of  a  profession  was  often  dis- 
cussed between  them.  At  one  time  they  proposed  en- 
tering the  law,  because  it  afforded  so  wide  a  scope  for 
political  ambition;  and  at  another  they  discussed  their 
own  dramatic  powers,  with  a  view  to  writing  plays. 

During  a  part  of  his  collegiate  course  Judson  was 
engaged  in  the  instruction  of  a  school  at  Plymouth, 
and  on  closing  school  set  out  on  a  tour  through  the 
Northern  States,  and  thence  to  New  York.  Before 
setting  out  on  this  tour,  he  had  unfolded  his  infidel 
sentiments  to  his  father,  and  had  been  treated  (as  we 
are  informed  by  his  sister,  from  whose  reminiscences 
we  derive  these  facts)  with  the  severity  natural  to  a 
masculine  mind  that  has  never  doubted,  and  to  a 
parent  who,  after  making  many  sacrifices  for  the  son  of 
his  pride  and  of  his  love,  sees  him  rush  recklessly  on 
his  own  destruction.  His  mother  was  none  the  less 
distressed,  and  she  wept,  and  prayed,  and  expostulated. 
He  knew  his  superiority  to  his  father  in  argument; 
but  he  had  nothing  to  oppose  to  his  mother's  tears  and 
warnings,  and  they  followed  himnow  whereverhe  went. 
He  knew  he  was  on  the  verge  of  such  a  life  as  he  de- 
spised. For  the  world  he  would  not  see  a  young  brother 
in  his  perilous  position;  "but  I,"  he  thought,  "am  in 
no  danger:  I  am  only  seeing  the  world, — the  dark  side 
of  it  as  Avell  as  the  bright;  and  I  have  too  much  self- 
respect  to  do  any  thing  mean  or  vicious."  In  this 
spirit,  while  in  New  York,  he  attached  himself  to  a 


254  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

theatrical  company,  not  Avith  the  design  of  entering 
upon  the  stage,  but  partly  for  the  purpose  of  familiar- 
izing himself  with  its  regulations  in  case  he  should 
enter  on  his  literary  projects,  and  partly  from  curiosity 
and  the  love  of  adventure. 

After  seeing  what  he  wished  of  New  York  he  pur- 
sued his  journey  westward,  and  visited  the  home  of  an 
uncle,  a  Christian  minister.  The  uncle  was  absent, 
and  the  conversation  of  the  young  man  who  occupied 
his  place  was  characterized  by  a  godly  sincerity,  a 
Bolemn  but  gentle  earnestness,  which  addressed  itself 
to  the  heart;  and  Judson  went  away  deeply  impressed. 
The  next  night  he  stopped  at  a  country-inn.  The 
landlord  mentioned,  as  he  lighted  him  to  his  room, 
that  he  had  been  obliged  to  place  him  next  door  to  a 
young  man  who  was  exceedingly  ill,  probably  in  a 
dying  state;  but  he  hoped  that  it  would  occasion  him 
no  uneasiness.  Judson  assured  him  that,  beyond  pity 
for  the  sick  man,  he  should  have  no  feeling  whatever. 
But  it  was  nevertheless  a  very  restless  night.  Sounds 
came  from  the  sick  chamber, — sometimes  the  move- 
ments of  the  watchers,  sometimes  the  groans  of  the 
sufferer;  but  it  was  not  these  which  disturbed  him. 
He  thought  of  what  the  landlord  had  said :  the  stranger 
was  probably  in  a  dying  state;  and  was  he  prepared? 
Alone,  and  in  the  dead  of  night,  he  felt  a  blush  of 
shame  steal  over  him  at  the  question,  for  it  proved  the 
shallowness  of  his  philosophy.  What  would  his  late 
companions  say  to  his  weakness?     The  clear-minded, 

intellectual,  witty  E ,  what  would  he  say  to  such 

consummate  boyishness?  But  still  his  thoughts  icould 
revert  to  the  sick  man.  "Was  he  a  Christian,  calm  and 
strong  in  the  hope  of  a  glorious  immortality?  or  was 
he   shuddering  upon  the  brink  of  a  dark,  unknown 


UNEXPECTED   CRISIS.  255 

future?  Perhaps  he  was  a  "freethinker,"  educated 
by  Christian  pai-ents  and  prayed  over  by  a  Christian 
mother.  The  landlord  had  described  him  as  a  young 
man;  and  in  imagination  he  was  forced  to  place  himself 
upon  the  dying  bed,  though  he  strove  with  all  his  might 
against  it.  At  last  morning  came,  and  its  light  dis- 
pelled all  his  "superstitious  illusions."  As  soon  as  he 
had  risen,  he  went  in  search  of  the  landlord  and  in- 
quired for  his  fellow-lodger.  "He  is  dead,"  was  the 
reply.  "Dead!"  "Yes;  he  is  gone,  poor  fellow! 
The  doctor  said  he  would  probably  not  survive  the 
night."  "Do  you  know  who  he  was?"  "Oh,  yes; 
it  was  a  young  man  from  Providence  College, — a  very 
fine  fellow:  his  name  was  E ."  Judson  was  com- 
pletely stunned.  After  hours  had  passed,  he  knew  not 
how,  he  attempted  to  pursue  his  journey.  But  one 
single  thought  occupied  his  mind,  and  the  words,  Dead ! 
lost !  lost !  were  continually  ringing  in  his  ears.  He 
knew  the  religion  of  the  Bible  to  be  true,  he  felt  its 
truth,  and  he  was  in  despair.  In  this  state  of  mind  he 
resolved  to  abandon  his  scheme  of  travelling,  and  at 
once  turned  his  horse's  head  towards  Plymouth. 

This  was  the  very  crisis  of  young  Judson's  history. 
The  two  unbelieving  friends  pursue  their  travels  hither 
and  thither,  and,  by  the  merest  accident,  as  it  seems  to 
the  eye  of  man,  cross  each  other's  path,  or  rather  meet, 
but  meet  unconsciously;  and,  unknown  to  each  other, 
occupy  adjoining  chambers, — the  one  to  die,  the  other 
to  be  awakened  by  that  death  out  of  his  unbelieving 
reverie,  and  to  seek  a  better  preparation  for  both  living 
and  dying  than  a  skeptical  philosophy  could  give  him. 
"  This  also  cometh  forth  from  the  Lord  of  hosts,  which 
is  wonderful  in  counsel  and  excellent  in  working." 

"Within  a  few  months   after  this   occurrence,  Mr. 


256  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

Judson,  now  twenty  years  of  age,  entered  Andover 
College,  not  as  a  professor  of  religion  and  candidate 
for  the  ministry,  but  as  a  person  deeply  in  earnest 
on  the  subject,  and  desirous  of  arriving  at  the  truth. 
He  had  become  thoroughly  dissatisfied  with  the  views 
of  life  which  he  formerly  cherished.  Aware  of  his 
l^ersonal  sinfulness,  and  conscious  that  he  needed 
some  great  moral  transformation,  he  yet  doubted  the 
authenticity  of  revealed  religion.  His  mind  did  not 
readily  yield  to  the  force  of  evidence.  This  is  by  no 
means  an  uncommon  ease,  as  is  remarked  by  Judson's 
biographer;  nor  is  it  at  all  difficult  of  explanation. 
A  deeply-seated  disinclination  to  the  humbling  doc- 
trines of  the  cross  frequently  assumes  the  form  of 
inability  to  apply  the  common  j)rinciples  of  evidence 
to  the  case  of  revealed  religion.  Men  of  unusual 
strength  of  will,  and  a  somewhat  too  confident  reliance 
on  the  decisions  of  their  individual  intellect,  are  j)eca- 
liarly  liable  to  fall  into  this  error. 

Mr.  Judson's  moral  nature  was,  however,  thoroughly 
aroused,  and  he  was  deeply  in  earnest  on  the  subject 
of  religion.  Light  gradually  dawned  upon  his  mind, 
and  he  was  enabled,  six  weeks  after  his  removal  to 
Andover,  to  surrender  his  whole  soul  to  Christ  as  his 
atoning  Saviour.  The  change  in  Mr.  Judson's  reli- 
gious character  was  not  attended  by  those  external 
indications  of  moral  excitement  which  are  frequently 
obseiwed.  The  reformation  wrought  in  him  was, 
however,  deep  and  radical.  With  unusual  simplicity 
of  purpose,  he  yielded  himself  up  once  and  forever 
to  the  will  of  God,  and,  without  a  shadow  of  misgiving, 
relied  uj)on  Christ  as  his  all-sufficient  Saviour.  From 
the  moment  of  his  conversion,  he  seemed  never,  through 
life,  to  have  been  harassed  by  a  doubt  of  his  accept- 


SAMUEL   BUDGETT.  257 

ance  with  God.  The  new  creation  was  so  manifest  to 
his  consciousness,  that,  in  the  most  decided  form,  he 
had  the  witness  in  himself  His  plans  of  life  were, 
of  course,  entirely  reversed.  He  banished  forever 
those  dreams  of  literary  and  political  ambition  in 
which  he  had  formerly  indulged,  and  simply  asked 
himself,  How  shall  I  so  order  my  future  being  as  best 
to  please  God  ?  That  he  was  moved  by  no  transient 
impulse  nor  fit  of  enthusiasm,  but  was  made  partaker 
of  a  new  life, — the  divine  life, — is  sufficiently  attested 
by  the  devotion  of  six-and-thirty  years  of  unwearied 
toil  to  the  salvation  of  idolatrous  Burmah. 

"Samuel  Budgett,"  says  his  biographer,  "was 
early  taught  to  worship,  and  obey,  and 
seek  the  God  from  whose  hand  his  young  bom  juiy,  1794! 
being  had  come.  What  Lamartine  so  ^  ^^'^  "" 
beautifully  says  of  his  own  mother  might  be  said 
equally  of  Budgett's  : — 'We  could  not  remember  the 
day  when  she  first  spoke  to  us  about  God.' "  One  of 
the  friends  of  his  after-life  thus  states  one  of  those 
events  which  pass  silently  within  the  bosom  of  Chris- 
tian families,  but  Avhich  reappear  in  the  life  of  their 
members,  in  blessed  and  memorable  fi'uit : — "  He  was 
about  nine  years  of  age,  when  one  day,  in  passing  his 
mother's  door,  he  heard  her  engaged  in  earnest  prayer 
for  her  family,  and  for  himself  by  name.  He  thought, 
<  My  mother  is  more  earnest  that  I  should  be  saved 
than  I  am  for  my  own  salvation.'  In  that  hour  he 
became  decided  to  serve  God,  and  the  impression 
then  made  was  never  effaced."  In  this  providential 
manner  began  the  Christian  life  of  one  of  the  most 
useful  and  honoured  of  the  sons  of  commerce,  who, 
rising  from  poverty,  acquired  wealth,  and  devoted  it 
ir 


258  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

with  a  liberal  hand  to  the  service  of  religion  and 
humanity. 

When  William  Hepburn  Hewitson*  entered  the 
w.  H.  Hewit-     University  of  Edinburgh,  in  the  autumn 
^'^^  ^di^d     of  1833,  his  soul  was  filled  with  the  in- 
Aug.  7, 1850.  tensest  anibition  to  acquire  fame.     And 

"  verily  he  had  his  reward."  He  was  "  facile  princeps" 
in  most  of  his  classes,  and  carried  off  a  variety  of 
prizes  amid  the  plaudits  of  his  fellow-students.  In  the 
spring  of  1837,  just  as  he  was  completing  his  literary 
course,  a  university  prize  was  proposed  for  the  best 
essay  on  the  Nature,  Causes,  and  Effects  of  National 
Character;  and  Hewitson's  ambition  was  stirred.  He 
wrote  at  Leamington  on  the  prescribed  theme,  and  on 
the  27th  of  December  the  Senatus  Academicus  ad- 
judged the  prize  to  him.  Meanwhile,  Providence 
interposed  to  teach  him  the  vanity  of  his  aims,  and 
to  prepare  him  to  reap  disappointment  from  his 
honours, — the  blessing  which  at  that  time  he  most 
needed.  In  the  month  of  November  he  happened  one 
day  to  turn  up  to  the  mineral  sj)ring  at  Leamington. 
A  young  man  entered  the  building  Avhose  appearance 
at  once  attracted  his  observation:  the  coarse  linen 
frock  was  in  strange  contrast  with  the  gay  apparel  of 
the  groups  around.  The  humble  youth  was  emaciated, 
and  walked  forward  with  a  feeble  step.  After  drink- 
ing of  the  water,  he  slowly  withdrew.  After  a  little, 
Mr.  Hewitson  descended  the  hill  in  the  middle  of 
which  the  sjjring  was  situated,  and  found  him  sitting 
at  one  of  the  bends  of  the  winding  path  which  slopes 


*  See  Biographical  Tract,  "  WiUiani  H.  Hewitson,"  publislied  by  the  Eeligious 
Tract  Society. 


WILLIAM    H.  HEWITSON.  259 

down  the  declivity.  "I  spoke  to  him,"  he  says. 
"His  diffident  tone  of  voice,  and  his  modesty  of  manner 
at  once  enlisted  my  sympathies.  During  several 
weeks  afterwards  I  frequently  visited  his  father's 
lowly  cottage.  My  intei'course  with  the  young  man 
soon  gave  me  ground  to  conclude  that  if  my  theoretic 
knowledge  of  gospel  truths  was  greater  than  his,  he, 
unlike  myself,  had  experienced  their  sanctifying  power. 
Truly  his  was  the  better  portion.  When  he  spoke  of 
the  Saviour's  love  to  sinners,  and  his  obedience  unto 
death  for  their  redemption,  he  at  times  gave  vent  to 
his  gratitude  by  tears  of  joy.  He  seemed,  like  one 
who  had  obtained  everlastiug  consolation  and  good 
hope  through  grace,  to  have  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  or 
anxiety  on  his  soul  as  to  the  prospect  of  eternal  glory. 
One  evening,  about  sunset,  he  fell  asleep." 

The  impressions  which  were  produced  by  ]\Ir. 
Hewitson's  visits  to  this  happy  death-bed  could  not 
be  effaced.  The  question  flashed  on  him,  "Could  I 
thus  calmly  pass  into  the  immediate  presence  of  the 
just  and  holy  Jehovah  ?  Am  I,  like  him,  sheltered 
from  the  wrath  to  come?"  It  was  amidst  these  deep 
anxieties  that,  in  January,  1838,  he  was  summoned 
to  Edinburgh  to  receive  the  honours  which  were 
awarded  to  his  essay  on  National  Character.  The 
essay  was  read  in  the  presence  of  all  the  professors 
and  students.  It  is  said  to  have  been  a  noble  produc- 
tion, embodying  in  one  masterly  work  the  accumulated 
resources  of  his  entire  past  studies.  And  the  applause 
bestowed  upon  it  was  more  than  sufficient  to  feed 
and  inflame  the  literary  ambition  of  a  less  aspiring 
mind  than  that  of  Mr.  Hewitson.  But  now  all  is 
changed.     Like  Henry  Martin,  he  found  that  he  had 


260  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

grasped  a  shadow,  or  rather,  his  biographer  says,  he 
had  grasped,  not  a  shadow,  but  a  stinging  serpent. 
"Ambition,"  we  find  Hewitson  himself  writing,  while 
the  crown  of  laurel  is  still  fresh  upon  his  brow, — 
"ambition  is  a  devil,  and  public  praise  is  a  siren, 
which  soothes  while  it  destroys."  And  but  for  the 
interposition  of  a  gracious  Providence,  he  says,  it 
had  accomplished  his  final  destruction.  The  crowned 
academician  became  miserable  in  the  enjoyment  of 
his  honours.  And  two  years  passed  over  him  before 
he  found  peace.  From  the  time  that  his  heart  was 
maddened,  as  he  expressed  it,  by  the  unsatisfactoriness 
of  fame,  the  "strong  divinity  of  soul"  within  him — 
to  use  the  language  of  his  earlier  life — was  waked  up 
to  contend  against  the  sins  of  his  own  heart,  to 
"crucify  the  flesh  with  its  affections  and  lusts;"  and 
he  knew  full  well  that  it  was  only  in  Christ  Jesus  he 
must  find  acceptance:  but  still  he  was  in  bondage. 
And  the  secret  of  his  difficulty  is  revealed  in  his  own 
words: — For  long  the  painful  feeling  still  j)reyed 
upon  my  mind,  that  I  must  do  some  good  works 
myself,  or  God  would  not  accept  me  in  Christ  Jesus." 
His  wrestlings  with  sin  and  a  corrupt  heart  were  not 
unreal  or  uncalled-for.  But  the  subtle  spirit  of  self- 
righteousness  which  pervaded  them  blinded  him  to  the 
truth  in  which,  through  divine  teaching,  he  aftei-wards 
rejoiced, — that  the  gospel  oifer  is  "free  and  full,  and 
wholly  of  grace." 

Dr.  Hope  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  merchant,  and 

Dr.Jas.Hope;     Gujoycd  the  grcatcst  cducatioual  advau- 

pon.  iUi!''died     tages  in  every  department  but  one.    His 

■^^*^-  parents,   at   least   when   their   children 

were  young,  belonged  to  that  numerous  class  who 


DR.  JAMES   HOPE.  261 

deem  morality  to  be  religion,  and  who  think  that  by- 
setting  a  good  example  to  their  families  and  the  poor, 
by  a  regular  attendance  at  chiirch,  and  by  a  consistent 
course  of  honesty  and  integrity,  they  are  performing 
all  the  requirements  of  religion.  During  his  medical 
studies  in  Edinburgh,  young  Hope's  character  was 
quite  unsullied  by  any  of  the  dissipations  of  youth ; 
but  this  he  ascribed  to  the  natural  refinement  of  his 
feelings,  and  not  to  religious  principle.  He  Continued 
the  observance  of  Sunday  in  the  same  manner  as  he 
had  been  taught  to  do  at  home,  never  studying  on  that 
day;  and  dui'ing  his  earlier  medical  pi'actice,  while  he 
was  yet  a  stranger  to  the  power  of  the  gospel,  he  did 
the  same;  and  he  ever  after  thought  that  a  blessing 
attended  even  this  partial  and  imperfect  obsei'vance 
of  the  Sabbath. 

This  eminent  physician  Avas  at  first  stimulated  to 
exertion  only  by  motives  of  worldly  ambition,  and  by 
the  desire  to  add  lustre  to  the  name  he  boi-e.  His 
father  had  pushed  these  pi-inciples  to  their  utmost 
limit,  and,  by  keeping  in  the  shade  the  more  sordid 
inducements  of  wealth,  and  that  aggrandizement  which 
is  strictly  selfish  and  personal,  had  inspired  his  son 
with  notions  which  many  would  have  considered  en- 
thusiastic. This  ambition  led  him  to  use  the  greatest 
diligence,  to  practise  remarkable  self-denial  and  con- 
trol over  his  natural  tastes  and  feelings,  and  to  rest 
unsatisfied  so  long  as  there  was  one  individual  who 
surpassed  him.  It  was  so  far  removed  from  all  vain- 
glorious desires  to  enjoy  the  appearance  of  greatness 
without  its  reality,  and  so  united  to  a  real  elevation  of 
character,  that,  in  ordinaiy  language,  it  would  have 
been  called  a  laudable  ambition.  But  God  was  not  in 
all  the   young  doctor's  thoughts.     Eternity  had  no 


262  THE   DIVINE  LIFE. 

place  in  his  reckonings  and  pni'suits.  And  the  turn- 
ing-point of  his  spiritual  history  is  found  in  a  circum- 
stance which  common  speech  would  call  casual  or 
accidental. 

In  the  winter  of  1826-27,  while  in  Paris,  a  friend, 
Dr.  Nairne,  happened  to  call  on  him  one  Sunday  and 
inquire  whether  he  was  going  to  church.  Dr.  Hope 
answered  in  the  negative,  assigned  some  trivial  reason 
for  not  going  to  the  ambassador's  to  divine  service, 
and  added  that  there  was  no  other  place  to  which  he 
could  go.  "Oh,"  said  Dr.  Nairne,  "I  will  show  you 
where  to  go;"  and  he  accordingly  took  him  to  the 
chapel  of  Mr.  Lewis  Way.  This  was  the  first  time 
Dr.  Hope  had  heard  evangelical  preaching,  and  what 
his  first  impressions  were  we  are  not  informed.  But 
he  now  perceived  that  if  religion  was  any  thing  it  must 
be  every  thing.  The  same  activity  of  mind  which 
spurred  him  on  in  the  pursuit  of  scientific  truth 
pi'ompted  him  to  bring  his  whole  mental  faculties  to 
the  investigation  of  that  immutable  truth  the  import- 
ance of  which  so  infinitely  surpasses  that  of  all  others. 
During  the  remainder  of  his  residence  abroad  he 
eagerly  embraced  every  opportunity  of  conversing  on 
the  subject,  and  of  eliciting  the  oj)inions  of  those 
whose  conduct  bore  evidence  of  their  being  under  the 
influence  of  religion.  After  his  arrival  in  London 
he  found  more  time  to  investigate  the  subject  calmly 
and  dispassionately.  He  was  always  slow,  we  are  told, 
in  forming  a  conclusion  on  a  new  subject;  not  because 
he  experienced  difiiculty  in  comprehending  it,  but 
because  of  his  high  opinion  of  its  importance ;  and  his 
comprehensive  mind  could  see  further,  and  discover 
more  intricacies  to  unravel,  than  a  moi*e  superficial 
intellect  would  have  done.     The  result  was  that  his 


LIVING   AND   DYING.  ZD» 

conduct  ans-vrered  to  the  scriptural  definition  of  the 
kingdom  of  heaven,  in  the  comparison  of  it  to  leaven, 
which,  put  into  one  corner,  worked  imperceptibly  till 
the  whole  was  leavened.  Within  a  few  years  it  was 
evident  that  ambition  was  no  longer  the  mainspring 
of  his  actions.  He  desired  henceforward  to  devote  all 
his  talents,  his  professional  eminence,  and  the  influence 
accruing  from  it,  to  the  service  of  religion.  And  how 
thoroughly  his  life  was  imbued  and  governed  by  its 
princij)les  will  be  seen  from  the  testimony  of  Dr. 
Thomas  H.  Burder,  author  of  "Letters  from  a  Senior 
to  a  Junior  Physician."  In  reference  to  the  early 
period  of  their  acquaintance,  he  says,  "Some  years 
ago,  before  I  was  aware  of  Dr.  Hope's  religious  prin- 
ciples, I  had  sometimes  said  to  Mrs.  Burder,  after  ob- 
serving him  narrowly,  'Well,  if  Dr.  Hope  is  not  a 
pious  man,  he  is  the  most  perfect  man  without  reli- 
gion I  ever  met  with.'  But  the  more  I  knew  of  him, 
the  more  anxious  was  I  to  discover  whether  any  prin- 
ciples short  of  those  which  teach  repentance  towards 
God,  faith  in  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  an  unreserved 
consecration  of  heart  and  life  to  his  service,  could  have 
yielded  such  transparency  of  conduct,  such  humanity, 
disinterestedness,  humility,  guileless  simplicity,  and 
undeviating  integrity,  as  I  observed  in  him.  At 
length  I  learned  that  he  lived  'as  seeing  Him  who 
is  invisible.' "  The  faith  which  sanctified  Dr.  Hope's 
life  cheered  his  death.  Within  a  few  hours  of  his 
departure  he  said,  "I  will  not  make  speeches;  but  I 
have  two  things  to  say."  The  first  was  an  affectionate 
farewell  to  his  wife.  He  then  added,  "The  second  is 
soon  said.  Christ  is  all  in  all  to  me.  I  have  no  hope 
except  in  him.     He  is,  indeed,  all  in  all." 


264  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

Dr.  Ca3sar  Malan  received  the  following  narrative 
from  the  subject  of  it.     A  voung  man, 

Narrative     by  r.    -r^  i      -r.  ^  &  ' 

Dr.  Caesar  Ma-  the  son  of  Frcnch  Protestant  parents, 
was  turned  aside  from  the  paths  of  reli- 
gion and  virtue  during  his  attendance  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Paris.  In  the  pursuit  of  sinful  pleasure,  in- 
stead of  enjoying  satisfaction,  he  was  a  terror  to 
himself.  "  When  I  reached  the  age  of  twenty-six  (he 
said)  I  was  in  the  sight  of  God  as  a  madman,  or  like 
the  horse  which  spurns  the  bridle,  rushes  furiously 
into  the  battle,  and  falls,  being  wounded  suddenly 
from  every  quarter.  ...  I  had  taken  my  degree,  and 
entered  on  the  duties  of  my  profession,  (as  a  barris- 
ter,) when,  in  one  of  my  fits  of  ungovernable  passion, 
I  had  a  quarrel,  which  ended  in  a  challenge  to  a  duel 
with  one  whom  I  thoroughly  hated,  as  I  regarded  him 
as  a  rival.  Our  combat  (why  not  call  it  our  mutual 
purpose  of  assassination  ?)  was  to  take  place  in  secret. 
I  spent  a  whole  day  and  night  in  preparing  for  it,  and 
still  I  could  not  look  forward  to  it  without  horror. 
Not  that  I  dreaded  either  being  wounded  or  killed, 
for  I  was  unfeeling,  and  my  heart  was  hardened. 
But,  sir,  my  Bible  frightened  me.  I  had  laid  it 
aside  in  a  closet,  and  to  this  closet  I  went  to  seek 
the  sword  with  which  I  intended  to  meet  my  oppo- 
nent. I  opened  the  closet:  it  was  nearly  midnight. 
I  climbed  a  chair,  and  reached  to  the  highest  shelf, 
feeling  for  my  sword,  when  I  laid  my  hand  on  my 
Bible.  A  sudden  chill  ran  through  my  veins,  and, 
without  any  time  for  deliberation,  I  took  the  book, 
opened  it,  and,  still  standing  on  the  chair,  I  read  the 
tenth  Psalm,  which  was  the  first  passage  on  which 
my  eyes  rested.  Thus,  sir,  the  voice  of  the  Lord  once 
more  resounded  through  the  dark  recesses  of  my  soul. 


THE    DUELLIST    AND   THE   BIBLE.  265 

1  read  with  breathless  eagerness,  and  still  I  went  on 
reading,  though  my  uneasiness  increased,  till  I  came 
to  this  verse: — 'Wherefore  doth  the  wicked  contemn 
God  ?  lie  hath  said  in  his  heart,  Thou  wilt  not 
require  it.' 

"  I  felt  confounded,  and,  throwing  myself  prostrate 
on  the  floor  of  my  room,  I  sobbed  aloud  and  groaned, 
praying  for  pardon  from  God  for  the  sake  of  Jesus. 
I  dared  not  rise ;  I  was  afraid  even  to  look  up.  I  felt 
that  the  eye  of  God  was  upon  me,  and  my  sorrow  is 
not  to  be  described.  The  tortured  criminal  does  not 
sufler  what  I  then  felt;  and  about  an  hour  passed 
away,  at  the  end  of  which  time  I  felt  somewhat  more 
calm,  and  sat  down,  still  holding  my  Bible  in  my 
hand.  God  had  thus  rescued  me.  The  prayers  of 
my  poor  mother  were  heard,  and  my  sinful  soul  was 
restored  to  the  narrow  way  of  life,  which,  indeed,  I 
had  never  totally  forgotten,  though  I  had  in  so  great 
a  degree  trodden  under  foot  the  truths  I  had  learned, 
seeking  to  crush  them  as  I  should  a  serpent. 

"What  followed?  My  duel  was  a  painful  subject, 
and  I  resolved  to  give  it  up.  But  this  was  not  all ;  I 
was  filled  with  sympathy  for  him  whom  I  had  regarded 
as  my  adversary,  and  I  longed  to  make  this  known  to 
him,  and  also  to  those  w^ho  were  to  have  been  the  wit- 
nesses of  our  crime.  The  day  began  to  dawn,  and  the 
hour  for  our  meeting  arrived.  My  companions  came 
to  seek  me ;  but  I  had  gone  on  first,  and  hastened  to 
the  wood  which  had  been  the  place  chosen  for  the 
duel.  I  reached  it  first,  and  felt  that  the  Lord  w^is 
graciously  present  with  me.  My  adversary,  accom- 
panied by  his  second  and  mine,  arrived  there,  and, 
perceiving  me,  he  cried  out,  'Here  I  am;  make 
ready !'     I  answered,  seriously,  but  with  much  feel- 


266  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

ing,  'I  am  ready,  in  the  presence  of  God,  to  ask  par- 
don of  you,  if  I  have  offended  you,  and  to  forgive  you 
any  wrong  you  may  have  done  to  me.'  '  Coward ! 
scoundrel!'  he  exclaimed;  'this  is  your  meanness!' 
'You  need  not  insult  me,'  I  added;  'I  speak  in  the 
presence  of  God,  who  sees  us  both.  He  has  humbled 
me  and  touched  my  heart,  and  I  repent,  and  acknow- 
ledge my  folly  before  him,  and  entreat  you  also  to 
fear  him,  and  no  longer  to  reject  his  mercy.'  .  .  . 

"  Thus,  sir,"  said  the  narrator  to  Dr.  Malan,  "  God 
prevailed.  The  contest  was  dropped,  and  I  returned 
to  the  town,  urging  my  companions  no  longer  to  live 
in  rebellion  against  God.  I  know  not  if  they  yielded 
to  my  entreaties,  for  I  left  the  town  shortly  after- 
wards, and  had  no  further  intercourse  with  them. 
But  I  cannot  describe  the  joy  of  my  pious  mother, 
when  she  saw  me  to  be  such  as  she  desired,  and  felt 
that  the  infinite  love  and  mercy  of  the  Lord  had  been 
manifested  towards  me." 


The  instances  are  innumerable  in  which  the  stray 
events  of  Divine  Providence  become  the 

affl^icuon°°^  °^  occasions  and  crises  of  the  greatest  moral 
changes.     "We  now  proceed  to  trace  the 

agency  of  a  mean  which  God  uses,  perhaps  more  than 

any  other  of  a  providential  order,  to  bring  thoughtless 

men  to  himself     It  is  that  of  affliction. 

"  The  Ood  our  light  proud  hearts  deny 
Our  grief-worn  hearts  adore." 

But  yet  it  is  not  that  affliction  has  any  power  either 
to  awaken  a  contrite  sense  of  sin,  or  to  inspire  a  man 
with  the  new  sentiments  which  characterize  the  Chris- 
tian convert.     So  far  from  it,  that  it  often  proves  the 


AFFLICTION.  267 

means  of  steeling  the  heart  against  the  claims  of  God; 
and  many  come  out  of  the  fmniace  not  melted,  far  less 
refined,  but  only  hardened  into  an  obduracy  which 
nothing  will  move.  Of  this  we  have  a  memorable 
instance  in  the  case  of  Pharaoh.  God  detei'mined  to 
deliver  his  x^eople,  and  he  commanded  their  oppressor 
to  let  them  go.  The  effect  of  that  command,  however, 
was  only  to  irritate  and  provoke  him.  But  "  God  not 
only  sent  the  command  to  Pharaoh,  but  sent  one  pu- 
nishment after  another  to  him  for  resisting  that  com- 
mand. It  does  not  surprise  us  to  be  told  that  some 
of  these  punishments  shook  the  heart  of  the  king  for 
a  moment,  but  that  presently  he  relapsed  into  his  pre- 
vious determination,  and  that  after  each  new  act  of 
remorse,  and  each  new  effort  to  throw  it  off,  he  became 
harder  and  more  obstinate.  We  know  enough  of  our- 
selves and  our  fellow-men  to  feel  that  such  a  statement 
has  a  great  air  of  probability.  .  .  .  The  awful  contra- 
diction between  the  will  of  man  and  the  will  of  his 
Creator  is  aggravated  by  what  seemed  to  be  means 
for  its  cure.  .  .  .  Great  and  severe  troubles  come  upon 
us.  We  say  that  God  has  sent  them.  We  actually 
think  so.  Friends  who  look  on  observe  that  God 
is  trying  us,  doubtless  for  our  benefit.  They  complain 
afterwards  that  we  are  not  better  than  we  were  be- 
fore, not  gentler,  more  resigned,  more  humble.  Our 
sufferings  have  only  embittered  us.  They  wonder  at 
it.  God  has  shown  us  his  great  power.  We  have  said 
it  was  his.  Should  it  not  have  changed  the  whole 
course  and  habits  of  our  lives?"  Instead  of  this,  it 
often  hardens  that  which  it  seemed  to  soften. 

But  affliction  is  not  alwaj's  in  vain.  Accompanied 
by  a  divine  agency,  it  becomes  the  means  of  turning 
men  to  God.     And  more  appropriate  means  cannot  be 


268  THE   DIVINE  LIFE. 

imagined.  Tlie  case  of  Manasseh  presents  itself  as  a 
contrast  to  that  of  Pharaoh.  ''Manasseh  would  find 
himself  surrounded  in  Babylon  by  the  gods  of  whom 
he  had  set  up  images  in  Jerusalem;  he  would  see  that 
in  its  perfection  which  he  had  tried  to  imitate  on  a 
poor  and  insignificant  scale.  And  he  would  be  under 
the  rod  with  which  he  had  wished  to  scourge  his  sub- 
jects. This  was  the  kind  of  lesson  which  all  the  pro- 
phets had  prepared  their  kings  for.  They  had  dallied 
with  idolatry, — there  was  something  in  it  specially  at- 
tractive ;  it  seemed  so  much  more  passionate,  devout, 
sympathetic,  than  that  worship  which  the  law  of  their 
fathers  had  prescribed.  Their  taste  would  be  gratified. 
They  should  experience  this  worship  in  the  length  and 
depth  and  breadth  of  it.  They  had  dallied  with  ty- 
ranny :  what  old  decrees  and  statutes  had  j)ower  to 
bind  them,  the  rulers  of  the  land?  What  obligations 
had  they  to  their  serfs  and  bondsmen  ?  No  remedy 
can  be  effectual  for  such  thoughts  but  that  which  is 
said  to  have  been  tried  upon  the  Sicilian  masters  in 
the  days  of  Timoleon, — the  becoming  serfs  and  bonds- 
men themselves.  In  this  case  we  are  told  it  was  eff'ec- 
tual.  Manasseh  humbled  himself,  turned  to  the  Lord 
God  of  Israel,  and  was  brought  back  to  Jerusalem  an- 
other man." 

We  shall  trace  the  influence  of  aflaiction  on  the 
minds  of  some  of  the  most  eminent  Christians,  such 
as  Howels,  Cecil,  Peter  Waldo,  and  John  Newton. 
It  will  be  seen  that  its  forms  were  various,  sometimes 
personal  disease,  sometimes  domestic  bereavement, 
sometimes  startling  natural  occurrences  awakening 
fear  and  thoughtfulness,  sometimes  mental  sorrow 
from  dissatisfaction  and  disgust  with  the  world;  and  it 


WILLIAM    HOWELS.  269 

will  be  found,  moreover,  that  the  casual  is  often  com- 
bined with  the  afflictive  in  turning  sinners  to  God. 

The  Eeverend  William  Howels  was  known  and 
honoured  in  London  for  many  years,  as  a 

^,  William  How- 

faithful  servant  of  Jesus  Christ.     When     eis ;  bom  1778. 

in     Glamorgan- 

a  child,  he  was   taujrht  to  pray   by  a    shire;   died  iu 

'  ,  ,  J-  ^       ,   •  London,  1832. 

pious  mother,  and  used,  according  to  his 
own  statement,  to  run  into  holes  and  corners,  and 
hide  himself,  and  weep  over  his  sins.  His  impressions 
of  the  evil  of  sin,  of  the  holiness  of  God,  and  of  his 
omniscience,  omnipresence,  and  omnipotence,  are  said 
to  have  been  deep  and  powerful.  Throughout  his 
early  years,  he  was  known  as  a  youth  of  scrupulous 
morality  and  unflinching  integrity,  while  his  temper 
Avas  cheerful  and  sociable.  His  talents  and  acquire- 
ments gained  him  great  esteem  in  the  cultivated  ranks 
of  society  J  while  the  amiable  qualities  of  his  heart, 
his  warmth  of  affection,  and  readiness  to  fulfil  every 
kind  office,  joined  to  unreserved  frankness  of  manners, 
rendered  him  beloved  by  all  classes  in  his  neighbour- 
hood. "As  to  religion,"  says  his  biographer,  "he 
was  strictly  moral  and  conscientious;  but  his  acquaint- 
ance with  divine  doctrines  was  at  this  period  very 
imperfect,  and  of  a  legal  kind." 

In  1800,  William  Howels  entered  the  University  of 
Oxford,  full  of  ambition  and  expectation.  As  sub-libra- 
rian of  the  Bodleian  Library,  the  stores  of  academical 
learning  were  thrown  open  to  him;  but  an  invisible 
hand  soon  obstructed  his  way.  His  career  of  applica- 
tion and  progress  was  arrested  by  the  failure  of  his 
health.  But  the  ardent  and  persevering  youth  was 
not  easily  diverted  from  his  purpose,  and  for  some  time 
strove  hard,  in  spite  of  incipient  indisposition,  to  con- 


270  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

tinue  the  pursuit  of  his  favourite  studies.  A  pious 
clergymun  found  the  pale  and  sickly  student  one  day 
in  the  Bodleian  Library,  intent  on  perusing  a  Greek 
poet,  and,  affectionately  remonstrating  with  him,  in- 
quired why  lie  did  not  rather  read  his  Greek  Testa- 
ment. The  inquiry,  however,  did  not  lead  to  any 
religious  thoughtfulness.  And  his  letters  of  this  date 
show  that  God  had  no  place  in  his  affections  and  aims. 
"M}^  ambition,  and  it  is  a  laudable  ambition,  is  of  that 
painful,  restless  kind,  that  it  would  urge  me  to  be  a 
critic  in  classical  learning.  My  passions  are  of  a  fiery 
nature;  whatsoever  I  take  in  hand  I  cannot  help 
pursuing  to  excess." — ''Illness  alone  I  could  bear 
with  patience;  but  what  I  chiefly  regret  is,  that  I  am 
not  able  to  prosecute  my  studies."  —  "I  feel  this 
moment  all  the  agonies  of  the  most  exquisite  sensi- 
bility. It  is,  however,  one  comfort  to  reflect  that  I 
have  run  my  career  of  folly;  I  have  resisted  every 
temptation  I  have  been  exposed  to  at  Oxford.  This 
is  the  race-week,  but  I  have  not  been  at  the  races. 
We  have  very  elegant  balls  here,  as  I  have  been  in- 
formed, frequented  by  several  persons  of  high  rank. 
My  being  a  gownsman  entitles  me  to  go  to  any  of 
them;  but  I  have  wasted  so  much  time  already,  that 
I  shun  them  as  I  would  Satan.  I  have  two  years  yet 
before  I  can  be  made  a  Bachelor  of  Arts.  I  do  not 
intend  leaving  Oxford  this  summer.  Oh,  had  I  health ! 
Illness  weakens  the  mind  as  well  as  the  body;  but  I 
must  be  content.  It  is  useless  to  struggle.  Eubs  and 
difficulties,  after  all,  are  the  best  tutors  for  a  young 
man;  they  teach  him  more  wisdom  than  all  the  sages 
of  antiquity." 

It  is  impossible  to  read  these  words  without  respect 
and  sympathy.     They  embody  much  of  the  spirit  of  a 


THE    ''PSALIM    OF    LIFE."  271 

pojiular  ode,  entitled  "A  Psalm  of  Life."  ''Life  was 
real,  life  was  earnest,"  in  the  estimate  of  William 
Ilowels.  He  could  eschew  the  fashionable  dance  and 
the  exciting  race-course  to  concentrate  time  and 
energy  on  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  and  the 
attainment  of  fame.  Even  affliction  he  could  philoso- 
phicall}^  declare  to  be  the  young  man's  best  tutor 
And  he  could  say, — 

'■Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  anj'  fate; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labour  and  to  wait." 

But  liis  words  as  clearly  indicate  the  absence  of 
Christian  principle  as  a  source  either  of  strength  or 
of  solace.  They  exhibit  nothing  of  the  humiliation  of 
the  penitent  sinner,  bowing  under  the  chastisement  of 
his  heavenly  Father, — no  looking  to  Jesus  for  pardon, 
peace,  and  spiritual  health, — no  application  to  the 
Divine  Comforter  for  support  or  holiness.  And  in  a 
letter  in  which  he  notices  the  departure  of  his  beloved 
mother,  there  is  no  trace  of  a  mind  that  has  found  a 
refuge  for  its  cares  and  troubles  in  the  bosom  of  a 
Saviour.  The  character  of  the  philosopher  appears  to 
have  been  hitherto,  in  his  view,  the  model  of  perfection, 
the  sum  of  religion. 

But  now  a  new  scene  of  intense  interest  opened  in 
the  history  of  the  invalid  student,  and  a  spiritual 
change  was  experienced,  which  influenced  with  all- 
commanding  power  the  whole  of  his  subsequent  life. 
The  circumstances  are  thus  related  by  a  friend: — 
"Whilst  dear  Mr.  Howels  was  in  a  painful  state  as 
to  bodily  health  and  mental  feeling  at  Oxford,  and  as 
yet  an  utter  stranger  to  the  effectual  support  and 
heavenly  solace  of  vital  religion,  a  fellow-collegian, 


272  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

Mr.  Lewis,  proposed  to  go  with  him,  one  Sabbath 
evening,  to  a  Eaptist  chapel  in  the  city,  to  hear  a 
popular  preacher,  (the  Eev.  James  Hinton,)  and  to 
Bee  a  respectable  congregation,  as  a  means  of  relieving 
the  tedious  hours  of  solitude.  This  proposal,  made  in 
the  spirit  of  youthful  levity,  was  acceded  to  by  the 
sickly  student,  with  no  higher  views  than  the  hope  of 
a  temjDorary  relaxation  of  thought  by  the  change  of 
scene  and  objects.  Both  accordingly  went  to  the 
chapel.  Ilowels  was  much  taken  up  with  the  elegant 
language  and  general  ministerial  talents  of  the 
preacher,  and  returned  home  well  satisfied.  He  was 
induced,  for  the  gratification  of  his  taste  for  eloquence, 
to  repeat  his  visit  to  the  same  chapel.  But  it  pleased 
the  Lord,  who  overrules  the  steps  of  man  to  his  own 
ends,  to  take  occasion  thereby  to  bring  his  purj)oses 
to  pass,  by  appljring  the  great  truths  of  the  gospel 
with  irresistible  power  to  his  heart.  The  eyes  of  his 
mind  were  now  enlightened  to  see  his  lost  state,  as  a 
sinner,  with  great  clearness;  and  in  due  proportion 
were  the  suitableness,  glory,  and  value  of  the  Saviour 
revealed  to  him  by  the  Spirit.  Nothing  less  than  the 
divine  righteousness  of  Immanuel  could  give  peace  of 
conscience  and  effectual  rest  to  the  troubled  mind. 
Could  moral  integrity  and  decent  conduct  avail  at  such 
a  crisis?  This  exemplary  and  amiable  youth  had  as 
much  to  repose  his  hopes  on  as  most  men;  yet,  when 
the  commandment  came  in  the  light  and  power  of  the 
Spirit,  sin  revived,  and  he  died  to  all  self-righteous 
confidence,  and  henceforth  became  a  most  determined 
opposer  of  human  pretensions  to  merit,  and  a  most 
energetic,  uncompromising  advocate  of  justification 
by  faith  in  the  sole  merits  of  a  cnicified  Eedeemer. 
He  was  thus  effectually  converted,  from  worshipping 


BROUGHT   TO    CHRIST.  273 

the  vain  idol  of  literary  fame,  to  the  saving  knowledge 
and  service  of  the  only  true  God  and  Saviour  Jesus 
Christ.  Our  devoted  student  had  been  led  into  the 
university  in  the  pleasing  hope  of  attaining  honours; 
but  he  had  met  with  a  painful  disappointment,  which 
made  his  situation  in  college  comfortless  and  dreary 
as  a  desert.  The  Lord  was  pleased  to-reveal  himself 
to  hira  in  the  midst  of  his  'trouble'  in  a  way  of  mercy 
and  grace  through  the  gospel,  and  to  give  him  'a 
good  hope*  and  an  earnest  of  a  better  'and  more 
enduring  substance'  than  the  shadowy  object  of  his 
former  anxious  pursuit.  The  Lord  'is  able  to  do 
exceeding  abundantly  above  all  that  we  ask  or 
think.'" 

"When  the  value  of  divine  things  beamed  clearly  on 
the  mind  of  William  Howels,  his  energetic  spirit  (to 
use  the  words  of  his  biographer)  was  characteristically 
actuated  by  them.  He  gave  them  deep  and  intense 
consideration.  The  conviction  of  sin  within  him  was 
deep-wrought  and  searching,  unfolidng  the  innermost 
recesses  of  his  heart,  inducing  a  spirit  congenial  with 
the  apostle's  when  he  exclaimed,  "Oh,  wretched  man 
that  I  am!"  His  views,  on  the  other  hand,  of  the 
excellency  and  divine  glory  of  the  pei'son  of  Christ, 
together  with  the  complete  efficacy  of  his  merits  for 
the  salvation  of  the  believing  sinner,  were  clear,  full, 
and  strong,  indicative  of  the  teaching  of  that  Spirit 
whose  office  it  is  to  glorify  Christ.  When  we  review 
the  circumstances  of  Howels's  conversion,  and  connect 
them  with  his  subsequent  ministry,  so  fruitful  of  other 
conversions,  we  can  only  exclaim,  "This  also  cometh 
forth  from  the  Lord  of  hosts,  which  is  wonderful  in 
counsel  and  excellent  in  working." 
18 


274  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

EiCHARD  Cecil  became  one  of  the  most  honoured 

E  Cecil-  born     ^"^   iiscful   of   Christ's   ministers;    but 

died    I'ug^'^iV     ^^^  ^^^   ®^^  ^^^^  ^^^  providence  of  God 

^^^°-  must  first  reduce  him  to  misery  before 

he  will  appreciate  or  receive  the  gospel. 

There  was  a  decision,  a  daring,  an  untamableness, 
we  are  told,  in  the  structure  of  Cecil's  mind,  even 
when  a  boy,  to  which  the  minds  of  his  associates 
yielded  an  implicit  subjection.  Yet  this  bold  spirit 
was  allied  to  a  noble  and  generous  disposition.  He 
had  a  native  and  thorough  contempt  of  what  was 
mean  and  little.  Early  religious  impressions,  w^iich 
were  produced  by  "  Janeway's  Token  for  Children," 
soon  wore  away,  and  gave  place  to  the  follies  and 
vices  of  youth.  By  degrees  he  listened  to  infidel 
principles,  till  he  avowed  himself  an  unbeliever.  And 
in  his  unbelief  he  was  one  of  the  boldest  of  the 
bold.  The  natural  daring  of  his  mind  allowed  him  to 
do  nothing  by  halves.  He  soon  became  a  leader  and 
apostle  of  infidelity,  and  laboured  to  banish  the 
scruples  of  more  cautious  minds.  In  this  he  was  too 
successful;  and  in  after-life  he  met  with  more  than 
one  of  his  converts  to  infidelity,  who  laughed  at  all 
his  aff'ectionate  and  earnest  endeavours  to  pull  down 
the  fabric  which  had  been  cemented  by  his  own  hands. 

With  all  his  infidel  daring,  however,  he  found  it 
difficult  thoroughly  to  believe  the  lie  which  he  loved, 
as  this  record  of  his  pen  shows: — "When  I  was  sunk 
in  the  depths  of  infidelity,  I  was  afraid  to  read  any 
author  who  treated  Christianity  in  a  dispassionate, 
wise,  and  searching  manner.  He  made  me  uneasy. 
Conscience  would  gather  strength.  1  found  it  more 
difficult  to  stifle  her  remonstrances.  He  would  recall 
early  instructions  and  impressions,  while  my  happiness 


KICHARD    CECIL.  275 

could  only  consist  with  their  obliteration."  Again 
he  tells  us  : — ''  M}^  father  had  a  religious  servant.  I 
frequently  cursed  and  reviled  him.  He  would  only 
smile  on  me.  That  went  to  my  heart.  I  felt  that  he 
looked  on  me  as  a  deluded  creature.  I  felt  that  he 
thought  he  had  something  which  I  knew  not  how  to 
value,  and  that  he  was  therefore  greatly  my  superior. 
I  felt  there  was  a  real  dignity  in  his  conduct.  It  made 
me  appear  little  even  in  my  own  eyes.  If  he  had  con- 
descended to  argue  with  me,  I  could  have  cut  some 
figure ;  at  least  by  comparison,  wi'etched  as  it  would 
have  been.  He  drew  me  once  to  hear  Mr.  Whitefield. 
I  was  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  of  age :  it  had  no 
sort  of  religious  effect  on  me ;  nor  had  the  preaching 
of  any  man  in  my  unconverted  state." 

How  shall  this  proud  spirit  be  subdued  and  changed? 
His  infidelity  plunged  him  into  every  species  of  licen- 
tiousness, but  could  not  satisfy  his  soul.  He  felt  the 
littleness  of  every  object  which  engages  the  ambition 
and  desires  of  carnal  men,  and  acquired  a  thorough 
disgust  of  the  world  before  he  gained  any  hold  of 
higher  objects  and  better  pleasures.  "When  I  was 
about  twenty  years  old  (he  says)  I  became  utterly 
sick  of  the  vanity  and  disgusted  with  the  folly  of  the 
world."  This  was  the  turning-point  of  his  life.  Into 
this  misery,  as  deep,  thoiigh  not  of  the  same  outward 
character,  as  that  of  the  prodigal  son  in  our  Lord's 
parable,  he  was  allowed  by  Providence  to  sink,  that 
he  might  feel  the  insufficiency  of  all  expedients  of 
human  device  to  satisfy  or  sustain  a  human  soul.  In 
the  midst  of  his  misery,  he  tells  us  that  his  mind  re- 
volted from  Christianity.  The  very  notion  of  Jesus 
Christ  and  of  redemption  repelled  him.  He  thought 
there  might  possibly  be  a  Supreme  Being,  and  if  there 


276  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

were,  he  might  hear  him  when  he  prayed.  There  was 
something  grand  and  elevating  in  the  idea  of  wor- 
shipping the  Supreme  Being;  but  the  whole  plan  and 
scheme  of  redemption  appeared  degrading,  and  it 
seemed  impossible  to  believe  in  it  as  a  religion  suit- 
able to  man.  But  the  Providence  which  let  him  work 
himself  into  misery  by  his  infidelity  surrovmded  him 
with  circumstances  which  were  blessed  as  the  means 
of  overcoming  his  aversion  to  the  faith  of  Jesus  Christ. 
He  was  connected  with  sincere  Christians,  whom  he 
knew  to  be  both  holy  and  happy.  "It  was  one  of 
the  first  things,"  he  writes,  "which  struck  my  mind 
in  a  profligate  state,  that,  in  spite  of  all  the  folly  and 
hjq^ocrisy  and  fanaticism  which  may  be  seen  among 
religious  professors,  there  was  a  mind  after  Christ, 
a  holiness,  a  heavenliness,  among  real  Christians." 
"My  first  convictions  on  the  subject  of  religion  were 
confirmed  from  observing  that  really  religious  persons 
had  some  solid  happiness  among  them,  which  I  had 
felt  that  the  vanities  of  the^  world  could  not  give.  I 
shall  never  forget  standing  by  the  bed  of  my  sick 
mother.  'Are  not  you  afraid  to  die  1"  I  asked  her. 
'  JSTo.'  '  No  ?  Why  does  the  uncertainty  of  another 
state  give  you  no  concern  V  '  Because  God  has  said 
to  me.  Fear  not:  when  thou  passest  through  the 
waters,  I  will  be  with  thee;  and  through  the  rivers, 
they  shall  not  overflow  thee.' "  The  remembrance  of 
this  scene  ofttimes  drew  from  him  the  ardent  prayer 
that  he  might  die  the  death  of  the  righteous.  His 
mind  opened  very  gradually  to  receive  the  truths  of 
the  gospel.  The  religion  which  began  in  disgust  With 
the  world  rose  by  degrees  superior  to  his  disaffection 
to  the  peculiar  doctrines  of  the  gospel.  The  seed 
sown  in  tears  by  his  inestimable  mother,  though  long 


PETER  WALDO.  277 

buried,  burst  into  life  and  shot  forth  with  vigour,  and 
he  became  a  preacher  of  that  truth  which  once  he 
laboured  to  destroy. 

Peter  "VValdo  was  a  rich  merchant  of  Lyons,  and 
enjoyed  his  opulence  without  thoughts  of 
a  hereafter,  till  he  was  startled  out  of  his  a^!*  neo^iis^s" ' 
pleasant  dreams  by  an  alarming  provi- 
dence. One  evening,  as  he  sat  after  supper  with  his 
fi-iends,  one  of  the  party  fell  lifeless  on  the  floor.  This 
incident  reminded  him  of  his  own  mortality,  and  made 
so  powerful  an  impression  on  his  mind,  that  he  resolved 
to  abandon  all  other  concerns  and  occupy  himself  wholly 
with  the  concerns  of  religion.  Happily,  his  attention 
was  drawn  to  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  he  resolved  to 
know,  from  the  original  fountain  itself,  the  way  of  life 
and  salvation.  He  read  the  Yulgate  for  himself,  and, 
in  addition,  employed  learned  men  to  translate  the 
Gospels  and  other  portions  of  the  Bible  into  the  Eo- 
mance  language.  He  thus  acquired  a  correct  idea  of 
Christ's  gospel,  and  found  peace  with  God.  Peter 
AValdo  now  distributed  his  wealth  among  the  poor, 
and  proposed  to  form  a  spiritual  society  of  apostoli- 
cals, — a  society  for  the  spread  of  evangelical  truth 
among  the  neglected  people  in  city  and  country.  He 
employed  for  this  purpose  multiplied  copies  of  his 
Eomance  version  of  the  Sci-iptures,  which,  by  degrees, 
was  extended  to  the  whole  Bible.  He  and  his  com- 
panions laboured  with  great  zeal,  and  without  any 
thought,  at  first,  of  separating  themselves  from  the 
Poman  communion,  but  simply  aiming  at  a  spiritual 
society,  like  many  others,  in  the  service  of  the  chui'ch  : 
with  this  difference, — that,  while  other  founders  of 
such    societies   were    animated  with   a   zeal   for  the 


278  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

church,  and  its  laws  possessed  for  them  all  the  force 
of  truth  di'awn  directly  from  the  word  of  God,  Peter 
Waldo,  on  the  other  hand,  was  influenced  more  by  the 
truth  derived  immediately  from  the  Scriptures.  Eut 
an  influential  union  of  laymen,  associated  for  the  pur- 
pose of  preaching  to  the  people, — a  union  which  made 
the  Sacred  Scriptures  themselves  the  source  of  reli- 
gious doctrine, — could  not  long  escape  opposition  and 
persecution.  The  Archbishop  of  Lyons  forbade  Peter 
Waldo  and  his  companions  to  expound  the  Scriptures 
and  to  preach.  But  they  did  not  think  they  ought, 
in  obedience  to  this  magisterial  decree,  to  desist  from 
a  calling  which  they  were  conscious  was  from  God. 
They  declared  that  they  were  bound  to  obey  God 
rather  than  man,  and  persevered  in  the  work  which 
they  had  began.  The  anathema  of  the  pope,  how- 
ever, soon  drove  Waldo  from  Lyons.  His  flock  were 
scattered,  and  "  went  everywhere  preaching  the  word." 
Many  of  them  found  an  asylum  in  the  valleys  of  Pied- 
mont, where  they  took  with  them  their  new  trans- 
lation of  the  Bible.  They  there  united  with  others 
of  the  same  faith,  and  are  known  in  history  as  the 
Waldenses,  or  Vaudois.  Waldo  himself,  after  many 
wanderings,  carrying  with  him  everywhere  the  glad 
tidings  of  salvation,  settled  at  length  in  Bohemia, 
where  the  fruit  of  his  labours  was  seen,  "  after  many 
days,"  in  the  rapid  extension  throughout  that  country 
of  the  principles  of  the  Reformation,  and  where,  in 
the  fourteenth  century,  as  many  as  eighty  thousand 
persons  are  said  to  have  been  put  to  death  ''for  the 
word  of  God,  and  for  the  testimony  which  they  held." 
That  sudden  death  in  the  house  and  presence  of  the 
rich  merchant  of  Lyons  was  indeed  a  fruitful  jjrovi- 
dence, — the  occasion  of  spiritual  benefits  and  moral 


JOHN    NEWTON.  279 

changes  wliich,  in  the  course  of  centuries,  became  too 
widely  spread  to  be  traced  or  numbered. 

In  the  history  of  John  Newton,  we  find  the  provi- 
dence of  God  preservino;  in  a  remarliable 

^  "  John  Newton ; 

manner  a  life  that  was  to  become  one  ot     bom  m  London, 

,  ,  ,  ,      .  July     24,    1725; 

great  value  to  the  world,  and,  m  a  man-     died    Dee.    21, 
ner  equally  remarkable,  turning  that  life 
from  courses  of  desperate  wickedness  into  the  way  of 
holiness  and  peace. 

The  pious  mother  who  had  taught  him  to  bend  his 
infant  knee  before  the  throne  of  the  heavenly  grace 
was  taken  from  him  before  he  was  seven  years  old. 
At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  had  religious  convictions, 
which  were  soon  dissipated,  and  he  learned  to  curse 
and  blaspheme.  Upon  his  being  thrown  from  a  horse, 
near  a  dangerous  hedge-row,  his  conscience  suggested 
to  him  the  dreadful  consequences  of  appearing  as  he 
was  before  God,  and  he  abandoned  his  profane  prac- 
tices for  a  time, — but  only  for  a  time ;  and  the  con- 
sequence of  such  struggles  between  sin  and  conscience 
was  that,  on  every  relapse,  he  sank  into  still  greater 
depths  of  wickedness.  While  yet  a  youth,  he  had 
an  engagement  to  go  on  board  a  man-of-war  one  Sun- 
day with  a  companion.  The  appointed  hour  arrived  : 
Newton  was  not  there;  and  the  boat  went  w^ithout 
him.  But  that  boat  never  reached  the  ship.  She  was 
overset,  and  Newton's  companion,  and  several  others, 
were  drowned.  He  had  been  but  a  few  minutes  too 
late  to  be  of  that  lost  party. 

Eeferi'ing  to  his  religious  impressions  and  temporary 
reformations,  he  wrote  afterwards: — "All  this  while 
my  heart  was  insincere.  I  often  saw  the  necessity  of 
religion  as  a  means  of  escaping  hell ;  but  I  loved  sin, 


280 


THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 


and  was  unwilling  to  forsake  it.  I  was  so  strangely 
blind  and  stupid,  that  sometimes,  when  I  have  been 
determined  upon  things  which  I  knew  were  sinful,  I 
could  not  go  on  quietly  till  I  had  first  discharged  my 
ordinary  task  of  prayer,  in  which  I  have  grudged 
every  moment  of  the  time:  when  this  was  finished, 
my  conscience  was  in  some  measure  pacified,  and  1 
could  rush  into  folly  with  little  remorse." 

In  one  of  his  reforming  moods,  Newton  became  a 
Pharisee.  "I  did  every  thing  (he  says)  that  might 
be  expected  from  a  person  entirely  ignorant  of  God's 
righteousness,  and  desirous  to  establish  his  own.  I 
spent  the  greatest  part  of  every  day  in  reading  the 
Scriptures,  and  in  meditation  and  prayer.  I  fasted 
often ;  I  even  abstained  from  all  animal  food  for  three 
months.  I  would  hardly  answer  a  question  for  fear 
of  speaking  an  idle  word:  I  seemed  to  bemoan  my 
former  miscarriages  very  earnestly,  and  sometimes 
with  tears :  in  short,  I  became  an  ascetic,  and  endea- 
voured, as  far  as  my  situation  would  permit,  to  re- 
nounce society,  that  I  might  avoid  temptation."  This 
reformation  continued  for  more  than  two  years.  But, 
he  adds,  "  it  was  a  poor  religion :  it  left  me  in  many 
respects  under  the  power  of  sin;  and,  so  far  as  it  pre- 
vailed, only  tended  to  make  me  gloomy,  stupid,  un- 
sociable, and  useless." 

From  an  ascetic,  John  Newton  became  an  infidel. 
In  1743  he  was  "impressed"  into  the  royal  navy.  His 
mind  had  already  been  poisoned  by  skeptical  reading, 
and  now  his  principal  companion  on  board  the  man- 
of-war  was  an  expert  and  plausible  infidel,  whose 
zeal  was  equal  to  his  address.  By  the  objections 
and  arguments  of  this  man,  Newton's  heart  was  soon 
gained,  and  he  plunged  into  infidelity  with  all  his 


NEWTON    AN    INFIDEL.  281 

spirit.  ''Like  an  unwary  sailor  who  quits  his  post 
just  before  a  rising  storm,"  religion  was  renounced  at 
the  very  time  when  its  restraints  and  comforts  were 
most  needed. 

The  wickednesses  in  which  John  K"ewton  now  in- 
dulged were  as  varied  as  his  circumstances  permitted. 
And  his  misery  was  complete.  There  seemed  no 
alternative  but  to  throw  himself  into  the  sea,  and  thus 
put  a  period,  as  his  infidelity  taught  him,  to  all  his 
sorrows  at  once.  One  reason  that  prevented  the 
commission  of  suicide  was  the  vindictive  hope  of 
taking  the  life  of  his  captain.  Conscious  that  he  had 
deserved  all  that  he  suffered  from  his  captain's  hands, 
(for  he  had  deserted  and  been  punished,)  his  pride 
suggested  that  he  was  grossly  injured.  And  his  pur- 
poses wavered  between  murder  and  suicide,  not  think- 
ing it  practicable  to  effect  both.  His  love  to  the 
young  lady  who  afterwards  became  his  wife  was  the 
only  restraint  that  was  now  left,  and,  though  he  nei- 
ther feared  God  nor  regarded  man,  he  could  not  bear 
that  she  should  think  meanly  of  him  when  he  was  dead. 

After  a  series  of  sins  and  sufferings,  we  find  him  on 
the  coast  of  Africa  in  the  emploj-ment  of  a  slave- 
dealer,  reduced  to  wants  which  made  him  a  literal 
representative  of  the  prodigal  son.  Sometimes  it  was 
with  difficulty  he  could  procure  a  draught  of  cold 
water  when  burning  with  a  fever.  His  bed  was  a 
mat,  spread  upon  a  board  or  chest,  with  a  log  for  his 
pillow.  Upon  his  appetite  returning  after  the  fever 
left  him,  he  would  gladly  have  eaten,  but  "no  man 
gave  unto  him."  In  his  distress  he  would  go  by  night 
into  the  plantation  and  pull  up  roots  and  eat  them  raw 
upon  the  spot,  for  fear  of  discovery.  The  very  slaves 
shunned  him,  yet  sometimes  pitied  him  and  relieved 


282  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

his  wants  out  of  their  own  slender  pittance.  lie  was 
a  very  outcast,  ready  to  perish.  But,  unlike  the  pi'O- 
digal  in  our  Lord's  parable,  his  distress  did  not  at  this 
time  awaken  him  out  of  the  stupor  of  sin  to  say,  "I 
will  arise  and  go  to  my  Father." 

Unexpectedly  rescued  from  this  life  of  degradation, 
it  was  only  to  encounter  fresh  disaster  and  peril  at 
sea.  But  ''  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way  his  won- 
ders to  perform."  He  was  regarded  as  a  Jonah  on 
board  the  ship  which  carried  him  from  off  the  coast  of 
Africa.  Though  not  ordinarily  addicted  to  drunken- 
ness, he  challenged  four  or  five  of  his  comrades  one 
evening  to  try  who  could  hold  out  longest  in  drinking 
rum.  Dancing  on  the  deck  like  a  madman,  his  hat  fell 
overboard,  and,  seeing  the  ship's  boat  by  moonlight, 
he  endeavoured  to  throw  himself  into  it  to  recover  his 
hat.  His  sight,  however,  had  deceived  him:  the  boat 
was  twenty  feet  from  the  ship's  side.  He  was  half 
overboard,  and  would  in  one  moment  have  plunged 
into  the  water  had  not  some  one  caught  hold  of  him 
and  pulled  him  back.  The  tide  ran  very  strong  at  the 
time;  his  companions  were  too  much  intoxicated  to 
save  him,  and  the  rest  of  the  ship's  company  were 
asleep;  and  as  for  himself,  he  could  not  swim  even 
had  ho  been  sober.  An  unseen  Providence  watched 
over  a  life  that  was  yet  to  be  made  a  blessing. 

Among  the  few  books  that  were  on  board  his  ship  was 
"Thomas  a  Kempis."  Newton  took  it  up  carelessly 
one  day,  as  he  had  often  done  before;  but  now  the 
thought  occurred  to  him,  "What  if  these  things 
should  be  true?"  He  could  not  bear  the  force  of  the 
inference,  and  shiTt  the  book,  concluding  that,  true  or 
false,  he  must  abide  the  consequences  of  his  own 
choice,  and  put  an  end  to  these  reflections  by  joining 


THE   SAILOR   IN    THE    STORM.  28o 

in  the  foolish  conversation  of  those  around  him.  But 
now  the  conviction  which  he  was  so  unwilling  to 
receive  was  forced  upon  him  amid  the  terrors  of  a 
storm.  He  went  to  bed  that  night  in  his  usual 
spiritual  indifference,  but  was  awaked  from  a  sound 
sleep  by  a  violent  sea,  which  broke  on  the  vessel  and 
filled  the  cabin  where  he  lay  with  water.  The  cry 
arose  immediately  that  the  ship  was  sinking.  He 
essaj^ed  to  go  on  deck,  but  was  met  upon  the  ladder 
by  the  captain,  who  desired  him  to  bring  a  knife.  On 
his  return  for  the  knife,  another  person  went  up  in  his 
j)lace,  and  was  instantly  washed  overboard.  For  four 
weeks  the  vessel,  an  almost  perfect  wreck,  was  at  the 
mercy  of  the  winds  and  waves,  and  the  men  M'^ere  con- 
stantly at  the  pumps.  Provisions  grew  short;  they 
had  no  bread,  hardly  any  clothes,  and  the  weather  was 
cold.  Then  the  bold  heai't  of  the  sailor  quailed  at  the 
thought  of  meeting  that  God  whom  he  had  rejected 
and  blasphemed.  But  at  first  he  could  not  pray,  and 
he  remained  for  a  time  in  a  sullen  frame,  a  mixture  of 
despair  and  impatience.  While  holding  the  helm  at 
the  solemn  midnight  hour,  his  former  religious  pro- 
fessions, his  many  warnings  and  deliverances,  his 
licentiousness,  his  profane  ridicule  of  Holy  Scripture, — 
all  rose  up  before  him,  and  his  sins  seemed  too  great 
to  be  forgiven.  He  waited  with  fear  and  impatience 
to  receive  his  inevitable  doom.  But  it  was  otherwise 
appointed  by  Him  who  is  over  all.  With  an  ordinary 
cargo  the  vessel  must  have  sunk,  but  the  wood  and 
beeswax  with  which  she  was  partly  laden  kept  her 
afloat.  And  with  the  hope  of  safety  there  gleamed 
into  his  soul  some  hope  towards  God.  He  began  to 
pray.  ''I  could  not  utter  the  prayer  of  faith,"  he 
says;  "1  could  not  draw  near  to  a  reconciled  God,  and 


284  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

call  him  Father;  my  prayer  was  like  the  cry  of  the 
ravens,  which  yet  the  Lord  does  not  disdain  to  hear. 
I  now  began  to  think  of  that  Jesus  whom  I  had  so 
often  derided;  I  recollected  the  particulars  of  his  life 
and  of  his  death, — a  death  for  sins  not  his  own,  but,  as 
I  remembered,  for  the  sake  of  those  who,  in  their  dis- 
tress, should  put  their  trust  in  him.^'  "O  God,  save 
me,  or  I  perish,"  was  the  cry  of  the  returning  prodigal. 
"The  God  of  the  Bible  forgive  me,  for  his  Son's  sake." 
"My  mother's  God,  the  God  of  mercy,  have  mercy  on 
me."  "The  comfortless  principles  of  infidelity  were 
riveted"  on  Newton's  soul.  But  before  reaching  port 
he  felt  he  had  satisfactory  evidence  of  the  truth  of  the 
gospel,  and  of  its  exact  suitableness  to  his  necessities. 
He  saw  that  "God  might  declare  not  his  mercy  only, 
but  his  justice  also,  in  the  pardon  of  sin,  on  account  of 
the  obedience  and  sufferings  of  Jesus  Christ."  "Till 
then  he  was  like  the  man  possessed  with  the  legion, 
No  arguments,  no  persuasion,  no  views  of  interest,  no 
remembrance  of  the  past  nor  regard  to  the  future, 
could  restrain  him  within  the  bounds  of  common  pru- 
dence; but  now  he  was  restored  to  his  senses."  He 
had  yet  much  to  learn,  but  he  left  that  broken  ship 
a  new  man.  And  after  a  few  years  he  became  a 
devoted  minister  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  one  of  the  most 
useful  men  of  his  age.  The  storm  was  in  this  instance 
the  minister  of  Providence  to  arrest  a  godless  youth, 
and  to  give  to  Christ's  church  one  of  the  holiest  men 
that  have  ever  ministered  at  her  altar. 

The  conversion  of  which  affliction  is  so  often  the 
means  or  occasion  is  not  to  be  regarded  as  a  being 
frightened  into  religion.  If  it  issued  only  in  a  con- 
strained  abandonment  of  certain  follies,  and  a  con- 


STORM   AND    SUNSHINE.  285 

sti'ained  observance  of  certain  rites,  we  should  give  it 
no  higher  character.  And  the  asceticism  or  virtue 
whose  only  motive  is  fear,  we  should  regard  as  of  no 
higher  spiritual  value  than  the  worldliness  or  vice 
which  it  succeeded.  But  when  we  find  a  man  emerge 
from  sorrow  and  suffering  with  new  spiritual  tastes, 
and  thereafter  living  a  life,  not  of  forced  conformity 
to  hated  precepts  from  the  fear  of  dreaded  judgments, 
but  a  life  of  loving  devotion  to  Christ  and  the  good  of 
men,  we  can  regard  his  affliction  as  nothing  less  than 
a  visitation  of  God  to  bring  that  soul  to  himself 

It  is  true  that  of  old  God  appeared  to  Elijah  not  in 
the  storm  and  tempest,  but  in  the  still  small  voice.  Yet 
who  does  not  know  that  God  maketh  the  winds  his 
miessengers  likewise,  and  useth  the  flames  of  fire  as 
his  ministers?  "Yea,  who  is  not  aware,"  to  use  the 
words  of  Dr.  Tholuck,  "how  much  more  infrequent 
have  been  the  times  when  God  appeared  to  him  in 
the  mild  gentle  sunshine,  than  those  in  which  he  came 
as  the  storms  roared  and  the  clouds  of  the  tempest 

gathered? Is   it   not   true   that,  when   the 

sun  shines  upon  us,  and  we  feel  its  gentle  warmth  in 
our  life,  we  become  indifferent  to  its  mild  beams,  and 
do  not  so  much  as  ask  whence  comes  the  pleasant 
light?  Because  it  is  grateful  to  our  feelings,  we 
think  that  it  is  a  matter  of  course.  Not  until  the 
tempest  comes,  which  we  dread,  do  we  look  around 
us  and  inquire,  "Whence  comes  this?  Before  the 
eye  of  the  Christian  there  rises  to  the  clouds  from 
every  event  in  life  a  thread,  on  which  the  eye  moves 
along  up  to  the  Source  where  all  gifts  begin  and  end. 
But  the  eye  of  the  natural  man  sees  not  the  thread, 
so  long  as  the  sun  shines.  When  it  is  night,  and  the 
lightning  gleams  through  the  darkness,  then  only  does 


286  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

he  discern  the  thread;  then  for  the  fii-st  time  do  his 
tardy  affections  rise  upward  to  God.  Oh,  what  an 
image  of  the  heart  of  man,  in  this  respect,  is  the 
history  of  Israel!  "What  Moses  says  in  his  parting 
song,  how  it  is  confirmed  in  the  history  of  ns  all! 
The  Lord  found  them  in  the  desert,  in  the  barren 
wilderness;  and  as  an  eagle  fluttereth  over  her  young 
and  beareth  them  away,  so  the  Lord  spread  out  his 
wings  and  took  them,  and  bore  them  on  his  wings, 
and  nourished  them  with  the  fruits  of  the  field,  and 
let  them  suck  honey  from  the  rock,  and  oil  from  the 
hard  stone.  But  when  they  were  satiated  and  had 
become  fat  they  were  insolent.  They  grew  strong 
and  neglected  the  God  who  made  them.  As  David 
confesses  of  himself,  'Before  I  was  afflicted  I  went 
astray;  but  now  have  I  kept  thy  word;'  so  do  the 
greater  part  of  Christians  confess,  each  of  himself, 
'As  long  as  thou,  eternal  God,  heldest  back  thy  light- 
ning and  thunder,  I  went  astray;  but  when  they 
prostrated  me  upon  the  ground,  I  then  attended,  for 
the  first  time,  to  thy  word,  and  learned  by  experience 
that  the  Lord  cometh  to  men  in  storm  and  tempest.' 
And  this  is  not  only  the  fact  at  the  first  return  to 
God  at  conversion;  ah!  is  it  not  our  general  expe- 
rience, that  the  Star  of  faith  never  shines  brighter 
than  when  it  is  night  all  around  us?  and  that  the 
field  of  our  life  never  brings  forth  better  fruit  than 
when  the  storm  and  tempest  come  over  it?  What 
but  this  is  the  reason  that  you,  who  are  the  most  ex- 
perienced Christians,  when  you  look  back  upon  your 
days  gone  by,  think  of  the  days  of  storm  and  com- 
motion with  no  less  gratitude  than  those  of  peace? 
For  all  chastisement,  when  it  is  upon  us,  seemeth  to 
be  not  a  matter  of  joy  but  of  sorrow;  yet  afterwards 


THE   FINGER   OF   GOD.  287 

it  will  yield  the  peaceable  fruit  of  righteousness  to 
those  who  are  exercised  thereby." 


Plutarch  relates  how  Timoleon  was  miraculously 
delivered  from  the  conspiracy  of  two  murderers,  by 
their  meeting  "  in  the  very  nick  of  time"  a  certain 
person  who,  to  revenge  the  death  of  his  father,  killed 
one  of  them,  just  as  they  were  ready  to  give  Timoleon 
the  fatal  blow,  though  he  knew  nothing  of  the  busi- 
ness, and  Timoleon  escaped  the  danger.  "  And  what," 
says  good  old  Flavel,  "  did  this  wonderful  work  of 
Providence,  think  you,  yield  the  relater?  Why, 
though  he  was  one  of  the  most  learned  and  ingenious 
among  the  heathen  sages,  yet  all  he  made  of  it  was 
this,  *  The  spectator  wondered  greatly  at  the  artifice 
and  contrivance  which  fortune  uses !'  This  is  all  he 
could  see  in  it.  Had  a  spiritual  and  wise  Christian 
had  the  dissecting  and  anatomizing  of  such  a  work  of 
Providence,  what  glory  woiild  it  have  yielded  to  God ! 
What  comfort  and  encouragement  to  the  soul !  The 
bee  makes  a  sweeter  meal  upon  one  single  flower  than 
the  ox  doth  upon  the  whole  meadow,  where  thousands 
of  them  grow." 

Let  not  the  reader  rise  from  the  review  of  those 
facts  and  histories  by  which  we  have  endeavoured  to 
illustrate  the  providential  occasions  of  conversion, 
without  exclaiming,  ''  This  is  the  finger  of  God."  It 
has  been  remarked  by  one  of  the  most  learned  of  men, 
as  chai-acteristic  of  the  poetry  of  the  Hebrews,  that 
"  as  a  reflex  of  monotheism  it  always  embraces  the 
universe  in  its  unity."  "  The  Hebrew  poet  does  not 
depict  nature  as  a  self-dependent  object,  glorious  in  its 
individual  beauty,  but  always  as  in  relation  and  sub- 


288  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

jection  to  a  higher  spiritual  power.  Nature  is  to  him 
a  work  of  creation  and  order,  the  living  expression  of 
the  omnipresence  of  the  Divinity  in  the  visible  world." 
So  are  all  the  occurrences  of  Providence  as  well  as  the 
l^henomena  of  nature.  And  this  is  no  mere  poetry. 
The  "  monotheism"  of  the  Hebrews  was  not  idea  or 
sentiment;  it  was  truth :  there  is  one  God,  ever  living, 
over  all.  And  the  inspired  literatui-e  of  the  nation  was 
indeed  a  "reflex"  of  this  truth.  The  Hebrew  bards 
saw  God's  hand  everywhere,  creating,  renewing,  work- 
ing, governing;  and  in  the  operations  of  this  hand 
they  saw  the  principle  that  bound  into  one  harmonious 
whole  the  wide  and  varied  universe  of  matter  and  of 
mind.  We  only  follow  in  their  wake.  The  trifles  of 
life  become  great,  the  chances  of  life  orderly  and 
regular,  the  ills  of  life  turn  into  blessings,  the  very 
dreams  of  life  become  grave  realities,  when,  by  the 
unseen  power  which  controls  and  guides  them,  they 
become  the  occasions  of  spiritual  good  to  immortal 
souls.  And  it  is  reason,  no  less  than  religion,  that 
says,  "  This  is  the  Lord's  doing,  and  it  is  marvellous 
in  our  eyes." 


PART   THE   FOURTH. 

THE    DIVINE    LIFE:    TRUE    MEANS. 

FACTS. 

Contents. — Pilgrim  and  the  Cross — Allegory  by  Dr.  James  Hamil- 
ton— Moravian  Missions — Testimony  of  John  Williams — Canni- 
bal Priest — Rammohiin  Roy— Banerji — Experience  of  Dr.  DufF— 
John  Wesley — Chas.  Wesley — Whitefield — Kingswood  Colliers — 
David  Hume — Hervey — Walker — Toplady — Berridge — Baxter — 
A.  Fuller— Dr.  MacAll— Quotations  from  Isaac  Taylor,  Chalmers, 
and  Professor  Butler. 

Conclusion. — The  Standing  Miracle — Argument  for  Divinity  of 
the  Gospel — What  Conversion  does  not  do — What  it  is  not — Am 
I  a  Partaker  of  the  Divine  Life? — Dying  Young  Lady — "The 
Sand  and  the  Rock." 


"The  Christian  scheme,  the  cause  and  the  source  of  spiritual  life  to 
the  individual  human  spirit." — The  Restoration  of  Belief. 

"  As  blossoms  and  fruit  grow  only  from  a  sound  root,  so  too  it  is  only 
from  faith  in  Christ,  and  in  the  redemption  wrought  by  him,  that  the 
true  moral  life  proceeds." — Olshausen. 

289 


"Where  is  the  wise?  where  is  the  scribe?  where  is  the  disputer  of 
this  world  ?  hath  not  Grod  made  foolish  the  wisdom  of  this  world  ?  For 
after  that  in  the  wisdom  of  God  the  world  by  wisdom  knew  not  God,  it 
pleased  God  by  the  foolishness  of  preaching  to  save  them  that  believe. 
For  the  Jews  require  a  sign,  and  the  Greeks  seek  after  wisdom  ,•  but  we 
preach  Christ  crucified,  unto  the  Jews  a  stumtling-block,  and  unto  the 
Greeks  foolishness;  but  unto  them  which  are  called,  both  Jews  and 
Greeks,  Christ  the  power  of  God,  and  the  wisdom  of  God.  Because  the 
foolishness  of  God  is  wiser  than  men;  and  the  weakness  of  God  is 
stronger  than  men." — The  Apostle  Paul,  (1  Cor.  i.  20-25.) 

"  Transformation  of  apostate  man 
From  fool  to  wise,  from  earthly  to  divine, 
Is  work  for  Him  that  made  him.     He  alone, 
And  he  by  means  in  philosophic  eyes 
Trivial  and  worthy  of  disdain,  achieves 
The  wonder;  humanizing  what  is  brute 
In  the  lost  kind ;  extracting  from  the  lips 
Of  asps  their  venom  ;  overpowering  strength 
By  weakness,  and  hostility  by  love." — Cowper. 


THE    DIYINE    LIFE: 


We  distinguish  the  occasions  and  even  the  instru- 
ments of  conversion  from  the  true  means;  and  what 
we  intend  by  the  latter  will  be  best  illustrated  by  two 
allegories,  one  of  them  fi-om  the  ever-new  story  of  the 
'^  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  the  other  from  a  modern 
author. 

In  Bunyan's  great  allegory  the  pilgrim  is  introduced 
to  us  clothed  with  rags,  standing  in  a  certain  place, 
with  his  face  from  his  own  house,  a  book  in  his  hand, 
and  a  burden  on  his  back.  He  reads  the  book,  and 
weeps  and  trembles.  Unable  to  contain,  he  cries  out, 
"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  He  is  undone,  he  tells  his  wife, 
by  reason  of  the  burden  that  lieth  hard  upon  him. 
Moreover,  their  city  is  to  be  burned  with  fire  from 
heaven,  and  he  sees  no  way  of  escape.  His  relations 
imagine  that  some  "frenzy  distemper"  hath  got  into 
his  head,  and  hope  that  sleep  may  settle  his  brains. 
But  he  spends  the  night  in  sighs  and  tears,  and  in  the 
morning  tells  his  friends  that  he  is  worse  and  worse. 
While  walking  solitarily  in  the  fields,  reading  and 
praying,  he  is  met  by  Evangelist,  who,  on  hearing  the 
recital  of  his  fears  and  anxieties,  directs  his  attention 
to  a  shining  light  over  a  wicket-gate  beyond  a  very 
wide  field,  and  says  to  him,  "Keep  that  light  in  your 
eye,  and  go  up  directly  thereto,  so  shalt  thou  see  the 
gate;  at  which,  when  thou  knockest,  it  shall  be  told 
thee  what  thou  shalt  do." 

291 


292  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

The  pilgrim  now  runs  across  the  plain,  resists  every 
entreaty  to  return,  and  cries,  "Life,  life,  eternal  life  I" 
Soon,  however,  he  and  one  whom  he  had  induced  to 
flee  with  him  from  the  City  of  Destruction  fall  into 
the  Slough  of  Despond.  Here  they  wallow  for  a  time, 
and  the  pilgrim,  whose  name  is  Christian,  begins  to 
sink  in  the  mire,  ''because  of  the  burden  on  his  back." 
He  struggles,  however,  to  the  side  of  the  slough  that 
is  farthest  from  his  own  house,  and  next  to  the  wicket- 
gate.  And,  by  the  assistance  of  one  whose  name  is 
Help,  he  gets  out,  and  walks  once  more  on  solid 
ground.  Danger  of  another  order  now  awaits  him,  in 
the  counsel  of  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman.  "In  yonder 
village,"  (the  name  is  called  Morality,)  says  this  plau- 
sible but  unsafe  guide,  "there  dwells  a  gentleman, 
whose  name  is  Legality,  a  very  judicious  man,  and  a 
man  of  very  good  name,  that  has  skill  to  help  men  off 
with  such  burdens  as  thine  is  from  their  shoulders; 
yea,  to  my  knowledge,  he  hath  done  a  great  deal  of 
good  this  way:  ay,  and,  besides,  he  hath  skill  to  cure 
those  that  are  somewhat  crazed  in  their  wits  with 
their  burdens.  To  him,  as  I  said,  thou  may  est  go, 
and  be  helped  presently.  His  house  is  not  quite  a 
mile  from  this  place ;  and  if  he  should  not  be  at  home 
himself,  he  hath  a  pretty  young  man  to  his  son,  whose 
name  is  Civility,  that  can  do  it  as  well  as  the  old  gen- 
tleman himself  There,  I  say,  thou  mayest  be  eased 
of  thy  burden." 

So,  says  our  author.  Christian  turned  out  of  his 
way  to  go  to  Mr.  Legality's  house  for  help;  but, 
behold,  when  he  was  got  now  hard  by  a  high  hill  which 
stood  by  the  wayside,  it  seemed  so  high,  and  also  that 
side  of  it  that  was  next  the  way  did  hang  so  much 
over,  that  Christian  was  afraid  to  venture  fiarther,  lest 


PILGRIM   AND   THE   CROSS.  293 

the  hill  should  fall  on  his  head ;  wherefore  there  he 
stood  still,  and  wot  not  what  to  do.  Also,  now  his 
burden  seemed  heavier  to  him  than  while  he  was  on 
his  way.  There  came  also  flashes  of  fire  out  of  the  hill 
that  made  Christian  afraid  that  he  should  be  burned : 
here,  therefore,  he  did  sweat  and  quake  for  fear. 

His  confusion  is  increased  by  meeting  his  old 
instructor,  Evangelist,  who  asks  him,  "Did  not  I  direct 
thee  the  way  to  the  little  wicket-gate?"  "Stand 
still,"  said  Evangelist,  "that  I  may  show  thee  the 
words  of  God."  So  he  stood  trembling,  while  Evan- 
gelist read,  "  The  just  shall  live  by  faith ;  but  if  any 
man  draw  back,  my  soul  shall  have  no  pleasure  in 
him."  Then  Christian  fell  down  at  his  feet  as  dead, 
crying,  "Woe  is  me,  for  I  am  undone  !" 

Admonished  and  instructed  by  Evangelist,  Christian 
resumed  his  onward  course  to  the  wicket-gate,  and,  on 
reaching  it,  announces  himself  as  a  poor  burdened 
sinner,  come  from  the  City  of  Destruction,  and  going 
to  Mount  Zion,  that  he  may  be  delivered  from  the 
wrath  to  come.  He  is  admitted  and  instructed  on 
many  points  of  which  he  is  yet  ignorant.  And  then 
he  girds  up  his  loins  to  address  himself  to  his  journey. 
But  still  the  burden  is  not  removed :  it  weighs  him 
down  and  makes  him  sad.  The  crisis  of  his  deliver- 
ance is,  however,  at  hand. 

"  Now  I  saw  in  my  dream  (says  our  author)  that 
the  highway  up  which  Christian  was  to  go  was  fenced 
on  either  side  with  a  wall,  and  that  wall  was  called 
Salvation.  Up  this  way,  therefore,  did  burdened 
Christian  run,  but  not  without  great  difficulty,  be- 
cause of  the  load  on  his  back. 

"He  ran  thus  till  he  came  at  a  place  somewhat 
ascending;  and  upon  that  place  stood  a  cross,  and  a 


294  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

little  below,  in  the  bottom,  a  sepulchre.  So  I  saw  in 
my  dream  that  just  as  Christian  came  up  with  the 
cross  his  burden  loosed  from  off  his  shoulders,  and  fell 
off  his  back,  and  so  it  continued  to  do  till  it  came  to 
the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre,  where  it  fell  in,  and  I  saw 
it  no  more. 

"  Then  was  Christian  glad  and  lightsome,  and  said, 
with  a  merry  heart,  'He  hath  given  me  rest  by  his 
sorrow,  and  life  by  his  death.'  Then  he  stood  still  a 
while  to  look  and  wonder,  for  it  Avas  very  surprising 
to  him  that  the  sight  of  the  cross  should  thus  ease 
him  of  his  burden.  He  looked,  therefore,  and  looked 
again,  even  until  that  the  springs  that  were  in  his 
head  sent  the  water  down  his  cheeks.  Now,  as  he 
stood  looking  and  weeping,  behold,  three  shining  ones 
came  to  him,  and  saluted  him  with,  'Peace  be  to  thee.' 
So  the  first  said  to  him,  '  Thy  sins  be  forgiven  thee.' 
The  second  stripped  him  of  his  rags,  and  clothed  him 
with  a  change  of  raiment.  The  third  also  set  a  mark 
on  his  forehead,  and  gave  him  a  roll  with  a  seal  upon 
it,  which  he  bid  him  look  on  as  he  ran,  and  that  he 
should  give  it  at  the  Celestial  Gate :  so  they  went  their 
way.  Then  Christian  gave  three  leaps  for  joy,  and 
went  on,  singing, — 

'Thus  far  did  I  come  laden  with  my  sin; 
Nor  could  aught  ease  the  grief  that  I  was  in, 
TOl  I  came  hither.    What  a  place  is  this ! 
Must  here  be  the  beginning  of  my  bliss  ? 
Must  here  the  burden  fall  from  off  my  back  ? 
Must  here  the  strings  that  bound  it  to  me  crack? 
Blest  cross  1     Blest  sepulchre  1     Blest  rather  be 
The  Man  that  there  was  put  to  shame  for  me !' " 

The  truth  which  is  thus  taught  in  Bunyan's  alle- 
gory is  the  doctrine  of  this  part  of  our  book.  It  is 
the  cross  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  the  atonement 


"happy  isle."  295 

which  he  offered  for  sin,  that  brings  peace  to  the  con- 
science, removes  the  burden  of  guilt,  and  at  the  same 
time  inspires  the  soul  with  those  principles  of  godly- 
obedience  which  constitute  the  divine  life  in  the  soul 
of  man.  There  is  a  most  intimate  connection  between 
the  removal  of  the  burden  of  guilt  and  the  removal  of 
the  bondage  of  sin,  and  the  cross  is  the  means  of  both. 
Other  truths  have  their  place  and  power  in  the  awaken- 
ing and  instructing  of  the  soul,  but  the  truth  that  the 
God-man,  the  Lord  Jesus,  hath  died  for  man's  sin,  is 
the  turning-point  of  the  soul's  conversion.  As  the  fact 
that  Christ  hath  died  for  men  is  the  basis  on  which  the 
holy  God  is  j)ropitious  to  men  and  pardons  and  saves 
them,  so  our  knowledge  and  belief  of  the  fact  brings 
peace  to  our  conscience,  and  inspires  our  heart  with 
fihal  love  to  God  and  filial  confidence  in  him  as  our 
Father  and  Friend.  Another  allegory  will  illustrate 
our  doctrine. 

Some  people  once  lived  in  a  happy  isle,  but  for  their 
misdeeds  they  had  been  banished.  Their  place  of  exile 
was  a  cheerless  coast;  but  it  lay  within  distant  sight 
of  their  former  home.  Soon  after  their  expulsion  a 
message  had  come  from  their  injured  sovereign,  offer- 
ing to  all  who  pleased  an  amnesty.  Few  minded  it. 
They  had  grown  sour  and  sullen,  and  they  tried  to 
persuade  themselves  that  the  earth-holes  in  which 
they  burrowed  were  more  comfortable  than  the  man- 
sions of  his  land,  and  that  the  mallows  among  their 
bushes  were  more  nutritious  than  all  the  fruits  of  his 
gardens.  One  man,  however,  was  of  a  different  mind. 
He  was  a  musing,  thoughtful  i^erson.  Often  might 
you  have  seen  him  pacing  the  beach  when  the  rays 
of  evening  shone  on  the  happy  isle,  and     .... 


296  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

from  his  dreary  prison  he  wistfully  eyed  the  forests 
on  its  coast,  and  the  mountains  of  purple  streaked 
with  silver  which  sat  enthroned  in  its  interior;  and, 
as  he  fancied  that  he  could  sometimes  hear  faint  mur- 
murs of  its  joy,  he  wished  that  he  was  there.  One 
morning,  when  he  awoke,  it  struck  him  that  the  oppo- 
site shore  was  unusually  nigh,  and  so  low  was  the  tide 
that  he  fancied  he  might  easily  ford  it,  or  swim  across. 
And  so  he  hastened  forth.  First  over  the  dry  shingle, 
then  over  the  sohd  sand  till  he  reached  the  damper 
sand,  and  then  he  was  astonished  at  his  own  delusion; 
for  it  was  still  a  mighty  gulf,  and  even  whilst  he  gazed 
the  tide  was  rising.  But  another  time  he  tried  another 
plan.  To  the  right  of  his  dwelling  the  line  of  coast 
stretched  away  in  a  succession  of  cliffs  and  headlands, 
till  the  view  was  bounded  hy  a  lofty  promontory, 
which  seemed  to  touch  the  farthest  side.  To  this 
promontory  he  resolved  to  take  a  pilgrimage,  in  the 
hope  that  it  would  transport  him  to  the  long-sought 
realm.  The  road  was  often  a  steep  clamber,  and  for 
many  an  hour  the  headland  seemed  only  to  flee  away. 
But  after  surmounting  many  a  slope  and  swell,  at  last 
he  reached  it.  With  eager  steps  he  ran  along  the 
ridge,  half  hoping  that  it  was  the  isthmus  which 
would  bear  him  to  the  happy  isle.  Ah,  no !  He  has 
reached  its  extremest  verge,  and  here  is  that  inexorable 
ocean  still  weltering  at  its  base.  Bafiled  in  this  last 
hope,  and  faint  with  his  ineffectual  toil,  he  flung  himself 
on  the  stones  and  wept.  But  by-and-by  he  noticed  off 
the  shore  a  little  boat,  with  whose  appearance  he  was 
quite  familiar.  It  used  to  ride  at  anchor  opposite  his 
own  abode,  and  had  done  so  for  ever  so  long;  but,  like 
his  neighbours,  he  got  so  used  to  it  that  it  never  drew 
his  notice.     Now,  however,  seeing  it  there,  he  looked 


THE   ATONEMENT.  297 

at  it,  and  as  he  looked  it  neared  him.  It  came  close 
up  to  the  rocks  where  he  was  seated.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful boat,  with  snowy  sail  and  golden  prow,  and  a  red 
cross  was  its  waving  pennon.  There  was  one  on 
board,  and  only  one.  His  raiment  was  white  and 
glistening,  and  his  features  betokened  whence  he  came. 
''Son  of  man,"  he  said,  "why  weepest  thou?"  "Be- 
cause I  cannot  reach  the  blessed  isle."  "  Canst  thou 
trust  thyself  with  me  ?"  the  strangerasked.  The  poor 
wayfarer  looked  at  the  little  skiff  leaping  lightly  on 
the  waves,  and  he  wondered,  till  he  looked  again  at 
the  pilot's  kind  and  assuring  countenance,  and  then 
he  said,  "I  can."  And  no  sooner  had  he  stepped  on 
board,  than  swift  as  a  sunbeam  it  bore  him  to  the  land 
of  light;  and,  with  many  a  welcome  from  the  pilot's 
friends,  he  found  himself  among  its  happy  citizens, 
clothed  in  their  bright  raiment,  and  free  to  all  their 
privileges,  as  now  a  subject  of  their  king. 
'  "  The  happy  isle,"  says  the  author  of  the  allegory,* 
"is  peace  with  God, — that  position  which  man  occu- 
pied whilst  innocent.  The  dreary  land  is  that  state  of 
alienation  and  misery  into  which  fallen  man  is  banished. 
The  little  skiff  denotes  the  only  means  by  which  the 
sinner  may  pass  from  nature's  alienation  over  into  the 
peace  of  God.  It  is  a  means,  not  of  the  sinner's  de- 
vising, but  of  God's  providing.  It  is  the  atonement; 
and  He  who  so  kindly  invites  sinners  to  avail  them- 
selves of  it  is  the  Lord  Jesus  himself" 

The  doctrine  which  these  allegories  teach  is  that 
which  the  Apostle  Paul  taught  of  old.  "  The  Jews 
require  a  sign,  and  the  Greeks  seek  after  wisdom :  but 
we  preach  Christ  crucified,  unto  the  Jews  a  stumbling- 

*  Dr.  James  Hamilton.    See  "  The  Royal  Preacher,"  Lecture  XX. 


^yo  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

block,  and  unto  the  Greeks  foolishness ;  but  unto  them 
which  are  called,  both  Jews  and  Greeks,  Christ  the 
power  of  God,  and  the  wisdo.a  of  God."*  The  apos- 
tolic ministry  was  one  of  "reconciliation,"  and  its 
great  theme  was  "  that  God  was  in  Christ  reconciling 
the  world  unto  himself,  not  imputing  their  trespasses 
unto  them."  It  was  this  ''word  of  reconciliation"  that 
the  apostles  addi'essed  to  the  hearts  and  consciences 
of  n*en  to  bring  them  back  to  God.  "We  are  ambas- 
sadors for  Christ,  as  though  God  did  beseech  you  by 
us:  we  pray  you  in  Christ's  stead,  be  ye  reconciled  to 
God.  For  he  hath  made  him  to  be  sin  for  us  who 
knew  no  sin;  that  we  might  be  made  the  righteousness 
of  God  in  him."f  The  death  of  Christ  in  man's  stead 
was  the  only  basis  of  reconciliation  between  the 
offended  God  and  the  offending  creature,  and  the  an- 
nouncement of  it  was  the  only  means  by  which  the 
heart  of  the  offender  could  be  subdued  and  won  back 
to  loyalty,  and  the  belief  of  it  the  only  means  by  which 
his  conscience  could  be  freed  from  the  burden  of  guilt. 
These  positions  receive  illustration  and  proof  from  the 
facts  and  histories  which  have  already  passed  before 
the  reader's  attention.  He  has  only  to  recall  the 
names  of  Paul,  Luther,  Latimer,  Gardiner,  Bunyan, 
Simeon,  Chalmers,  Wilberforce,  and  the  other  worthies 
whose  conversion  we  have  recorded,  to  be  impressed 
with  the  fact  that  by  whatever  means  their  attention 
was  drawn  to  religion,  or  their  interest  in  it  awakened, 
it  was  by  faith  in  Christ  they  found  peace  and  became 
partakers  of  a  true  holiness.  The  facts  and  instances 
which  follow  are  intended  further  to  illustrate  and 
confirm  this  important  principle. 

*  1  Cor.  i.  22-24.  t  2  Cor.  v.  19-21. 


THE    MORAVIANS.  299 

When  the  Moravian  missionaries  went  to  Green- 
land, in  1733,  they  thought  that  the  most  rational 
way  of  instructing  the  heathen  was  to 
speak  first  of  the  existence  and  perfec-  j^  Grf^^'ald!''" 
tions  of  God,  and  to  enforce  obedience  to 
he  divine  law;  and  they  hoped,  by  these  means,  gra- 
dially  to  prepare  their  minds  for  the  reception  of  the 
sublimer  and  more  mysterious  truths  of  the  gospel. 
But  this  plan  proved  wholly  ineffectual.  For  five 
years  they  laboured  in  this  style,  and  could  scarcely 
obtain  a  patient  hearing  from  the  savages.  But  cir- 
cumstances, unexpected  and  uncontrived  by  them- 
selves, led  to  an  entire  change  of  procedure. 

In  the  beginning  of  June,  1738,  Brother  Beck,  one 
of  the  missionaries,  was  copying  a  translation  of  a 
portion  of  the  Gospels.  He  read  a  few  sentences  to 
the  heathen,  and,  after  some  conversation  with  them, 
he  gave  them  an  account  of  the  creation  of  the  world, 
the  fall  of  man,  and  his  recovery  by  Christ.  In 
speaking  of  the  redemption  of  man,  he  enlarged  with 
more  than  usual  energy  on  the  sufferings  and  death 
of  our  Saviour,  and  exhorted  his  hearers  seriously  to 
consider  the  vast  expense  at  which  Jesus  had  ran- 
somed the  souls  of  his  people.  He  then  read  to  them 
out  of  the  New  Testament  the  history  of  our  Saviour's 
agony  in  the  garden.  Upon  this,  the  Lord  opened 
the  heart  of  one  of  the  company,  whose  name  was 
Kayarnak,  who,  stepping  to  the  table  in  an  earnest 
manner,  exclaimed,  "How  was  that?  tell  me  that  once 
more;  for  I  too  desire  to  be  saved."  These  words, 
which  were  such  as  had  never  before  been  uttered  by 
a  Greenlauder,  penetrated  the  soul  of  Brother  Beck, 
who,  with  great  emotion,  gave  them  a  fuller  account 
of  the  life  and  death  of  our  Saviour,  and  the  scheme 


300  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

of  salvation  through  him.  Some  of  the  pagans  laid 
their  hands  on  their  mouth,  (which  is  their  usual  cus- 
tom when  struck  with  amazement.)  On  Kayarnak 
an  impression  was  made  that  was  not  transient,  hut 
had  taken  deep  root  in  his  heart.  By  means  of  his 
conversation,  his  family,  or  those  who  lived  in  the 
same  tent  with  him,  were  brought  under  conviction  ;• 
and  before  the  end  of  the  month  three  large  families 
came  with  all  their  property  and  pitched  their  tents 
near  the  dwelling  of  the  missionaries,  in  order,  as  they 
said,  to  hear  the  joyful  news  of  man's  redemption. 
Kayarnak  became  eminently  serviceable  to  the  mis- 
sion as  a  teacher  of  his  countrymen,  and  adorned  his 
Christian  profession  till  his  death. 

The  missionaries  now  understood  the  divine  mode 
of  reaching  and  changing  the  heart  of  savage  or  of 
civilized.  They  determined,  in  the  literal  sense  of 
the  words,  to  preach  at  once  Christ  and  him  crucified. 
And  '*  no  sooner,"  says  Mr.  James  Montgomery,  "  did 
they  declare  unto  the  Greenlanders  ^the  word  of  re- 
conciliation '  in  its  native  simplicity,  than  they  beheld 
its  converting  and  saving  power.  This  reached  the 
hearts  of  their  audience,  and  j^roduced  the  most  as- 
tonishing effects.  An  impression  was  made  which 
opened  a  way  to  their  consciences  and  illuminated 
their  understandings.  They  remained  no  longer  the 
stupid  and  brutish  creatures  they  had  once  been :  they 
felt  they  were  sinners,  and  trembled  at  their  danger; 
they  rejoiced  in  the  Saviour,  and  were  rendered  capa- 
ble of  sublimer  pleasures  than  those  arising  from  plenty 
of  seals  and  the  low  gratification  of  sensual  appe- 
tites. A  sure  foundation  being  thus  laid  in  the  know- 
ledge  of  a  crucified  Eedeemer,  the  missionaries  soon 
found  that  this  supplied  their  young  converts  with  a 


THE   GREENLANDERS.  301 

jiowerful  motive  to  the  abhorrence  of  sin,  and  the  per- 
formance of  every  moral  duty  towards  God  and  their 
neighbour ;  taught  them  to  hve  soberly,  righteously, 
and  godly  in  this  present  world ;  animated  them  with 
the  glorious  hope  of  life  and  immortality;  and  gave 
them  the  light  of  the  knowledge  of  the  glory  of  God, 
as  the  Creator,  Preserver,  and  Moral  Governor  of  the 
world,  in  a  manner  far  more  correct  and  influential 
than  they  could  have  hoped  to  attain  had  they  per- 
severed in  their  first  mode  of  insti-uction.  The  mis- 
sionaries themselves  derived  benefit  from  this  new 
method  of  preaching.  The  doctrines  of  the  cross  of 
Christ  warmed  and  enlivened  their  own  souls  in  so 
powerful  a  manner,  that  they  could  address  the  hea- 
then with  uncommon  liberty  and  fervour,  and  were 
often  astonished  at  each  other's  power  of  utterance. 
In  short,  the  happiest  results  have  attended  this  prac- 
tice, not  only  at  first,  and  in  Greenland,  but  in  every 
other  country  where  the  Moravian  brethren  have 
laboured  for  the  conversion  of  the  heathen." 

The  principle  on  which  the  successful  labours  of  the 
Moravian  missionaries  have  been  conducted  has  often 
been  misunderstood.  "Of  all  who  have  attempted  to 
teach  Christianity  to  barbarous  or  savage  nations," 
wrote  a  celebrated  essayist  in  the  beginning  of  this 
century,  "the  Moravian  brethren  may  be  fairly  placed 
at  the  head.  They  begin  with  civilizing  their  puj)ils ; 
educating  and  instructing  them  in  the  useful  arts.  It 
is  by  this  kind  of  practical  instruction  alone  that  those 
in  a  certain  degree  of  ignorance  and  barbarism  are  to 
be  gained  over  to  the  truth."  In  reply  to  this  state- 
ment. Dr.  Chalmers  showed  that  it  was  founded  on 
ignorance  ot  the  means  which  the  Moravians  had 
adopted  ever  since  their  first   convert  was  won  by 


302  THE  DIVINE   LIFE. 

the  simple  story  of  the  cross.  "  The  truth  is/'  he  re- 
marked, "  that  the  Moravians  have  of  late  become  the 
objects  of  a  sentimental  admiration.  Their  numerous 
establishments,  and  the  many  interesting  pictures  of 
peace  and  order  and  industry  which  they  have  reared 
among  the  wilds  of  heathenism,  have  at  length  com- 
pelled the  testimony  of  travellers.  It  is  delightful  to 
be  told  of  the  neat  attire  and  cultivated  gardens  of 
savages ;  and  we  can  easily  conceive  how  a  sprig  of 
honeysuckle  at  the  cottage-door  of  a  Hottentot  may 
extort  some  admiring  and  poetical  prettiness  from  a 
charmed  spectator  who  would  shrink  offended  from 
the  peculiarities  of  the  gospel.  Now,  they  are  right 
as  to  the  fact.  It  is  all  very  true  about  the  garden 
and  honeysuckle;  but  they  are  most  egregiously 
wrong  as  to  the  principle.  And  when  they  talk  of 
these  Moravians  as  the  most  rational  of  missionaries, 
because  they  furnish  their  converts  with  the  arts  and 
comforts  of  life  before  they  ever  think  of  pressing 
upon  them  the  mysteries  of  their  faith,  they  make  a 
most  glaring  dejjarture  from  the  truth,  and  that,  too, 
in  the  face  of  information  and  testimony  afforded  by 
the  very  men  whom  they  profess  to  admire.  It  is  not 
true  that  Moravians  are  distinguished  from  the  other 
missionaries  by  training  their  disciples  to  justice  and 
morality  and  labour  in  the  first  instance,  and  by  re- 
fraining to  exhort  to  faith  and  self-abasement.  It  is 
not  true,  nor  does  it  consist  with  the  practice  of  the 
Moravians,  that,  in  regard  to  savages,  some  advance 
towards  civilization  is  necessary,  preparatory  to  any 
attempt  to  Christianize  them." 

The   question  thus  raised  is  now  settled,  not  on 
theoretic  grounds,  but  on  the  conclusive  evidence  of 


THE    POLYNESIANS.  303 

experiment  and  faith.  "I  am  convinced,"  said  the 
late  John  Williams,  after  many  years  of  labour  among 
savage  tribes,  "  that  the  first  step  towards  the  promo- 
tion of  a  nation's  temporal  and  social  elevation  is  to 
plant  among  them  the  tree  of  life,  when  civilization 
and  commerce  Avill  entwine  their  tendrils  around  its 
trunk  and  derive  support  from  its  strength.  Until 
the  people  are  brought  under  the  influence  of  religion, 
they  have  no  desire  for  the  arts  and  usages  of  civilized 
life;  but  thai  invariably  creates  it.  The  missionaries 
were  at  Tahiti  many  years,  duinng  which 
they  built  and  furnished  a  house  in  Euro-  ^J^^^_  Poiyne- 
pean  style.  The  natives  saw  this,  but  not 
an  individual  imitated  their  example.  As  soon,  how- 
ever, as  they  were  brought  under  the  influence  of  Chris- 
tianity, the  chiefs,  and  even  the  common  people,  began 
to  build  neat  plastered  cottages,  and  to  manufacture 
bedsteads,  seats,  and  other  articles  of  furniture.  The 
females  had  long  observed  the  dress  of  the  mission- 
aries' wives,  but  while  heathen  they  greatly  preferred 
their  own,  and  there  was  not  a  single  attempt  at  imi- 
tation. No  sooner,  however,  were  they  brought  under 
the  influence  of  religion,  than  all  of  them,  even  to  the 
lowest,  aspired  to  the  possession  of  a  gown,  a  bonnet,, 
and  a  shawl,  that  they  might  appear  like  Christian 
women.  While  the  natives  are  under  the  influence  of 
their  superstitions,  they  evince  an  inanity  and  torpor 
from  which  no  stimulus  has  proved  powerful  enough 
to  arouse  them  but  the  new  ideas  and  the  new  princi- 
ples implanted  by  Christianity." 

When  Christianity  was  introduced  into  the  island 
of  Earotonga,  two-and-thirty  years  ago, 

°  .  .  "^    "^  °    '       Cannibal  Priest. 

there  was  a  native  priest,  a  savage  can- 
nibal, who  was  so  enraged  at  the  success  of  the  gos- 


304  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

pel,  that,  with  seventy  men  of  like  character,  he 
vowed  a  vow  to  die  rather  than  submit  to  the  new 
faith.  This  man  assisted  in  burning  down  the  first 
chapels  and  school-houses  on  the  island,  and  for  fifteen 
years  was  a  determined,  violent,  and  constant  enemy 
to  the  truth.  By  some  means  he  was  induced  to  at- 
tend the  preaching  of  the  gospel,  became  convinced  of 
his  sins,  and  understood  something  of  Christian  truth, 
but  only  enough  to  make  him  unhappy.  When,  five 
years  afterwards,  he  was  admitted  into  the  fellowship 
of  the  Chi'istian  church,  he  spoke  to  this  eftect: — 
"Brethren,  am  I  here?  I  who  have  been  so  wild  a 
savage  ?  Ah !  brethren  is  a  new  name  to  us, — we 
knew  not  what  that  meant  in  our  heathenism." 
Pointing  to  the  old  men,  he  said,  "You  know  me." 
To  one  of  them  he  said,  "  You  and  I  killed  so  and  so 
in  yonder  mountain,  and,  with  others,  revelled  in  a 
cannibal  feast  on  his  body."  He  then  mentioned 
three  persons  by  name  whom  he  and  they  had  mur- 
dered and  eaten.  "But  you,  young  men,"  he  said, 
"know  me  too;  I  burned  down  the  chapel  and  schools : 
but  you  do  not  know  all.  These  hands  have  murdered 
eleven  persons  in  yonder  mountains,  and  I  have  par- 
taken of  more  than  twice  that  number  of  feasts  of 
human  bodies.  Am  I  here  ?  I  who  have  done  these 
deeds  ?  Some  of  you  have  been  expecting  me  to  come 
and  make  profession  of  my  faith  in  Jesus  long  before 
now.  But  whenever  I  have  thought  of  doing  so, 
the  sin  and  guilt  of  my  cannibalism  have  prevented 
me.  This  has  been  the  barrier,  until  the  other  day  I 
heard  the  missionary  preach  from  that  text  in  Isaiah, 
'  I  have  blotted  out,  as  a  thick  cloud,  thy  transgres- 
sions, and,  as  a  cloud,  thy  sins.'  That  was  the  gospel 
to  me.    Among  the  sins  making  uj)  that  cloud,  the 


CANNIBAL   PBIEST.  305 

sin  of  caBnibalism  was  noticed,  and  all  its  enormity 
described;  but  it  was  shown  that  even  that  could  be 
blotted  out  by  the  blood  of  Jesus.  My  burden  was 
that  moment  removed.  My  heart  found  peace.  I  had 
conversation  with  the  missionary,  and  now,  as  the 
result  of  the  love  and  death  of  Jesus,  it  is  true  that 
I,  even  I,  am  here."  And  this  man,  from  whom  the 
demon  of  sin  and  savageism  was  expelled  by  the  cross 
of  Christ,  is  now  one  of  the  most  intelligent  and 
consistent  elders  in  the  Earotongan  church.* 

In  the  course  of  five-and-thirty  years,  five-and- 
thirty  islands  in  these  Southern  seas  have  wholly  cast 
away  their  idols  as  the  fruit  of  the  labours  of  one 
society.  And  other  societies  have  been  equally  suc- 
cessful, so  that  there  are  now  in  these  regions  240,000 
persons  who  profess  the  faith  of  the  Bible,  and  of 
these  46,000  are  in  actual  membership  as  communi- 
cants at  the  table  of  our  Lord.  Will  it  be  said  that 
these  were  savages,  and  that  the  universal  adaptation 
of  the  gospel  is  not  to  be  inferred  from  their  conver- 
sion? The  answer  is  obvious  :^that  the  power  which 
effected  the  greater  change  is  competent  to  effect  the 
less.  It  is  not  among  the  snows  of  Greenland  and  the 
sunny  isles  of  the  Pacific  alone  that  the  efficacy  and 
adaptation  of  the  gospel  of  the  love  of  God  through  Jesus 
Christ  have  been  tested  in  modern  times  by  mission- 
ary societies.  There  is  not  a  land  under  heaven,  nor 
a  class  of  men  in  any  land,  that  does  not  supply  its 
living  witnesses. 

"Ah !"  said  the  celebrated  Brahmin,  Eammohun 
Eoy,  when  the  conversion  of  the  Greenlander  by  the 

*  The  above  foct  has  been  kindly  supplied  by  the  Rev.  W.  Gill ;  and  this  ex- 
peiii'ni.fMl  missionary  speaks  of  it  as  "one  of  ten  thousand  which  illustrate  tho 
powxr  of  tlif  gospel  in  the  South  Seas."' 


306  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

story  of  the  cross  was  mentioned  in  illustration  of 
the  principle  that  nothing  but  the  simple  preaching  of 
the  gosi^el  can  convert  the  world, — "Ah,"  said  he, 
all  the  jjride  of  the  Brahmin  rising  in  his  breast, 
"that  was  very  good;  but  you  must  not  suppose  the 
same  method  which  succeeded  with  the  rude,  the 
ignorant,  the  barbarous  Esquimaux,  would  do  for  the 
polished,  the  learned,  the  enlightened  Brahmins  of 
India."  "But  all  hearts  are  essentially  alike.  Green- 
landers  and  Esquimaux,"  to  use  the  words  of  Dr. 
Eaffles,  when  mentioning  this  circumstance;  "and 
this  gospel  of  the  kingdom  which  suits  the  one  will 
suit  the  other.  It  will, — it  must;  for,  if  it  does  not, 
there  is  nothing  else."  Facts  confirm  this  expecta- 
tion. There  are  now  in  India  many  Brahmins  who 
are  "obedient  to  the  faith,"  simple-hearted  believers 
in  the  truth  which  warmed  and  won  the  heart  of  the 
Greenlander  and  which  softened  and  humanized  the 
heart  of  the  Earotongan.  Pariah  and  Brahmin  are 
found  rejoicing  together  in  the  same  gospel  and  in 
the  same  Saviour. 

"I  believe,"  sa^'S  the  Eev.  Benjamin  Eice,  "that 
the  universal  experience  of  missionaries  in  India  is, 
that  when  the  doctrine  of  the  cross  is  first  propounded 
to  any  Hindoo,  and  especially  to  a  Brahmin,  it  is 
regarded  by  him,  as  it  was  by  the  ancient  Greeks,  as 
utter  'foolishness.'  But  when  any  educated  Hindoo, 
whether  Brahmin  or  otherwise,  can  be  brought  to  give 
sufficient  attention  to  the  subject  to  understand  the 
gospel  system,  the  evidence  on  which  it  is  based,  and 
the  complete  and  satisfactory  provision  which  it  makes 
for  those  sjiiritual  wants  of  humanity  which  Hindooism 
itself  professes  to  meet  but  does  not,  I  have  almost 
uniformly  found  that  then  the  doctrine  of  the  cross 


RAMMOHUN   ROT.  307 

commands  the  respect  of  such  a  man.  The  numerous 
conversions  that  have  actually  taken  place  among 
the  Brahmins — conversions  which  have  led  to  the 
renunciation  of  home,  kindred,  and  property,  and 
Bubmitting  to  a  life  of  contempt  among  their  own 
people  for  the  sake  of  Christ — suificientlj  disprove  the 
truth  of  Eammohun  Eoy's  assertion." 

A  converted  Hindoo,  an  educated  man,  informed  a 
missionarj^,  some  years  ago,  that  in  reading  the  Bible 
he  had  been  very  much  struck  with  the  fact  that, 
while  all  the  Hindoo  incarnations  had  been  assumed 
for  the  most  trivial  objects,  and  the  incarnate  deities 
had  led  lives  of  the  most  degrading  character,  Jesus 
Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  from  pure  love  to  a  sinful 
world,  became  incarnate  that  he  might  save  them  from 
ruin. 

The  Eev.  Krishna  Mohan  Banerji,  formerly  a  Brah- 
min, and  now  an  ordained  mmister  at 

^    .  .  .  •    1       1        /^i  1  The  Rev.  Krish- 

Calcutta,  m  connection  with  the  Church  na  Mohan  sa- 
of  England,  states  that,  while  the  doc- 
trines of  Christianity  were  under  discussion  by  Dr. 
Duff  and  the  young  infidel  Hindoos  of  Calcutta,  his 
mind  particularly  revolted  against  the  doctrine  of 
the  atonement,  'Hill  God,"  he  says,  "by  the  influence 
of  his  Holy  Spirit,  was  graciously  pleased  to  open  my 
soul  to  discern  its  sinfulness  and  guilt,  and  the  suit- 
ableness of  the  great  salvation  which  centred  in  the 
atoning  death  of  a  l)ivine  Eedeemer.  And  the  same 
doctrine  of  the  atonement  which,  when  not  properly 
understood,  was  my  last  great  argument  against  the 
divine  origin  of  the  Bible,  is  now,  when  rightly  appre- 
hended, a  principal  reason  for  my  belief  and  vindication 
of  the  Bible  as  the  production  of  infinite  wisdom  and 
love." 


308  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

The  experience  of  Dr.  Duff,  in  his  discussion  with 
the  class  to  which  this  young  man  belonged,  is  deeply- 
interesting  and  instructive.  They  were  youths  who 
had  been  educated  in  the  Government  College  at 
Calcutta,  an  institution  from  which  all  reference  to 
religion  was,  on  system,  excluded.  The  result  of  such 
training  was  what  might  have  been  anticipated.  Class 
after  class  issued  forth  from  this  college,  who,  by  the 
course  of  enlightened  study  pursued,  were  made  alive 
to  the  gross  absurdities  of  their  own  systems.  These, 
therefore,  says  Dr.  Duff,  they  boldly  denounced  as 
masses  of  imposture  and  debasing  error,  and  the 
Brahmins  as  deceivers  of  the  people,  though  many  of 
themselves  belonged  to  that  exalted  and  sacred  class. 
But  the}''  were  in  a  state  of  mind  utterly  blank  as 
regards  moral  and  religious  truth, — moral  and  religious 
obligation.  They  were  infidels  or  skeptics  of  the  most 
perfect  kind,  believing  in  nothing,  believing  not  even 
in  the  existence  of  a  Deity,  and  glorying  in  their 
unbelief.  All  subjects  seemed  to  be  more  or  less 
tolerated  but  religion.  Against  religion  in  every  form 
they  raged  and  raved.  They  scrupled  not  to  scoff  at 
Christianity;  they  scrupled  not  to  avow  their  disbelief 
in  the  very  being  of  a  God;  thus  realizing  the  con- 
dition of  the  men  described  by  an  ancient  author,  who 
"fled  from  superstition,  leaped  over  religion,  and  sunk 
into  atheism.''  They  despised  the  character  of  a  mis- 
sionary, whom  they  thought  fit  for  nothing  but  to 
stand  in  lanes  and  corners  of  the  streets,  and  there 
address  the  Pariahs  and  lowest  castes  of  the  people. 
Dr.  Duff  succeeded  at  last  in  bringing  them  to  a 
public  disputation,  met  them  on  their  own  ground, 
and  argued  with  them  the  question  of  the  being  of 
God,  "with  a  determinate  view,"  he  says,  "to  this 


DR.  DUFF   AND   THE   BRAHMINS.  309 

Doblest  end, — the  getting  a  hearing  on  the  higher  and 
more  glorious  subject  of  Christ  crucified."  At  the 
end  of  the  disputation  the  young  men  for  the  most 
part  declared,  ">Ye  now  believe  there  is  a  Great  First 
Cause,  the  intelligent  Author  of  all  things." 

Still,  these  young  Hindoos  were  not  prepared  to 
listen  to  the  gospel  message.  Was  it  from  God?  they 
demanded.  And  the  evidences  of  revealed  religion 
must  be  discussed  in  detail.  Night  after  night  these 
young  men  brought  forward  the  old  and  now  exploded 
arguments  of  Hume  on  the  subject  of  miracles;  and 
night  after  night  had  the  Christian  missionary,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ganges,  and  for  the  satisfaction  of  Hin- 
doos, to  combat  the  plausible  reasonings  and  deduc- 
tions of  that  great  but  misguided  man. 

"The  evidences  in  favour  of  Christianity  as  a  reve- 
lation from  God  having  been  admitted  by  several  as 
irresistible,  and  by  others  no  longer  opposed,  we  last 
of  all  (says  Dr.  Duff)  came  to  the  grand  terminating 
object  of  all  our  labours, — namely,  the  announcement 
of  the  message  itself,  the  full  and  free  declaration  of 
the  essential  doctrines  of  the  gospel.  It  was  then, 
and  then  only,  as  might  have  been  expected,  that  vital 
impressions  began  to  be  made.  Hitherto  we  were 
engaged  in  the  removal  of  obstacles  that  opposed  our 
entrance  into  the  temple  of  truth.  Having  now 
reached  the  threshold,  we  crossed  it  in  order  to  dis- 
cover and  admire  the  beauties  of  the  inner  workman- 
ship. Hitherto  the  intellect  chiefly  was  called  into 
exercise.  We  had  now  something  suited  to  the  feelings 
and  conscience.  The  word  of  God  is  the  alone  direct 
and  efficacious  instrument  in  awakening  and  regene- 
rating a  guilty  and  polluted  world,  and  the  Holy  Spirit 
of  God  the  alone  almighty  Agent   in  crowning  this 


310  THE  DIVINE   LIFE. 

instrumentality  with  triumphs  that  shall  issue  in  the 
glories  of  eternity.  Accordingly,  it  was  when  unfold- 
ing, in  simple  and  absolute  dependence  on  divine 
grace,  the  Scripture  doctrine  of  the  sinfulness,  depra- 
vity, and  helplessness  of  human  nature,  that  the  heart 
of  the  first  convert  became  seriously  affected  under  a 
sense  of  the  guilt  and  vileness  of  sin,  and  when  un- 
folding the  inexpressible  love  of  the  Divine  Redeemer 
to  our  apostate  world,  that  another  heart  was  touched, 
yea,  melted,  under  the  display  of  such  infinite  tender- 
ness. Thus  it  was  that  the  gospel  triumphed;  and 
the  doctrine  of  the  cross,  brought  home  to  the  heart 
and  conscience,  and  sealed  by  the  Divine  Spirit, 
maintained  its  high  pre-eminence  as  the  only  ante- 
cedent to  the  conversion  of  a  soul  towards  God." 

The  Brahmins  thus  won  to  God  exhibited  a  power 
of  faith  worthy  of  the  best  age  of  the  church  of  Christ. 
One  instance  will  be  sufficient  illustration.  "It  was 
about  nine  in  the  evening,"  (said  Dr.  Dufi",  addressing 
the  General  Assembly  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,)  "  and 
if  any  one  here  has  been  in  that  far  distant  land,  he 
will  know  what  the  exteraal  scene  was,  when  I  say  it 
was  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges,  and  under  the  full 
Ayoung  Brail-  cffulgcnce  of  an  Indian  moon,  whose 
^^-  brightness   almost   rivals  the  noonday 

glory  of  the  sun  in  these  Xorthem  climes.  Two  or 
three  had  resolved,  as  friends,  to  go  along  with  this 
individual,  and  witness  a  spectacle  never  before  seen 
by  us,  and  perhaps  not  soon  again  to  be  seen  by 
Europeans.  It  was  heart-rending  throughout.  Hav- 
ing reached  the  outer  door  of  the  house,  the  elder 
brother  of  this  young  man  advanced  towards  him,  and, 
looking  at  him  wistfully  in  the  face,  began  first  to 
implore  him,  by  the  most  endearing  terms  as  a  brother. 


FAITH    AND    HEROISM.  311 

that  he  would  not  bring  this  shame  and  disgrace  upon 
himself  and  his  family, — which  was  a  most  respectable 
one.  Again  and  again  did  he  earnestly  appeal  to  him 
by  the  sympathies  and  the  tenderness  and  the  aifection 
of  a  brother.  The  young  man  listened,  and,  with 
intense  emotion,  simply  in  substance  replied,  'That 
he  had  now  found  out  what  error  was;  that  he  had 
now  found  out  what  truth  was;  and  that  he  was  re- 
solved to  cling  to  the  truth.'  Finding  that  this 
argument  had  failed,  he  began  to  assert  the  authority 
of  the  elder  brother, — an  authority  sanctioned  by  the 
usages  of  the  people.  He  endeavoured  to  show  what 
power  he  had  over  him,  if  he  cruelly  brought  this 
disgrace  upon  his  family.  The  young  man  still  firmly 
replied,  'I  have  found  out  what  error  is;  I  have  found 
out  what  truth  is;  and  I  have  resolved  to  cling  to 
the  truth.'  The  brother  next  held  out  bribes  and 
allurements.  There  was  nothing  which  he  was  not 
prepared  to  grant.  There  was  no  indulgence  whatever 
which  he  would  not  allow  him  in  the  very  bosom  of 
the  family — indulgences  absolutely  prohibited  and 
regarded  as  abhorrent  in  the  Hindoo  system — if  he 
would  only  stop  short  of  the  last  and  awful  step  of 
baptism,  the  public  sealing  of  his  foul  and  fatal 
apostasy.  The  young  man  still  resolutely  adhered  to 
his  simple  but  emphatic  declaration. 

"It  was  now,  when  every  argument  had  finally 
failed,  that  his  aged  mother,  who  had  all  the  while 
been  present  within  hearing,  though  he  knew  it  not, 
raised  a  howl  of  agony,  a  yell  of  horror,  which  it 
is  impossible  for  imagination  to  conceive.  It  pierced 
into  the  heart,  and  made  the  very  flesh  creep  and 
shiver.  The  young  man  could  hold  out  no  longer. 
He  was  powerfully  affected,  and   shed  tears.     "With 


312  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

uplifted  arms,  and  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  he  forcibly 
exclaimed,  'JVo:  I  cannot  stay.'  And  this  was  the 
last  time  he  ever  expected  to  hold  converse  with  his 
brethren  or  his  mother. 

"I  could  not  help  feeling  then,"  continued  Dr. 
Duif,  "and  have  often  thought  since,  how  wonderful 
is  the  power  of  truth, — how  sovereign  the  grace  of 
God!  If  it  be  said  that  the  Hindoo  character  is 
griping  and  avaricious,  divine  grace  is  stronger  still, 
and  is  able  to  conquer.  If  it  is  yielding  and  fickle, 
— ay,  fickle  as  the  shifting  quicksands, — divine  grace 
can  give  it  consistency  and  strength.  If  it  is  feeble 
and  cowardly,  divine  grace  can  make  the  feeble  power- 
ful, and  convert  the  coward  into  a  moral  hero.  What 
signal  testimony  do  such  triumphs  bear  to  the  power 
of  the  everlasting  gospel !" 

It  is  not  maintained  that  the  gospel  of  pardon 
through  the  atoning  sacrifice  of  Christ  is  the  only 
means  of  awakening  religious  earnestness.  The  most 
selfish  fear,  and  the  most  mistaken  apprehensions  of 
the  character  of  God  and  of  the  way  of  obtaining  life, 
may  induce  an  agony  of  effort  to  please  God  and  to 
win  heaven.  But  the  gospel  is  essential  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  enlightened  peace  with  God,  and  to  the 
production  in  the  soul  of  man  of  the  principles  of  a 
free  and  loving  obedience.  And  this  is  seen  nowhere 
more  remarkably  than  in  the  life  and  labours  of  Wesley, 
Whitefield,  and  their  compeers. 

The  father  of  John  Wesley  was  an  estimable  and 

John  Wesley;     zealous    clergyman   of   the    Church   of 

wo'rth.  June  11,     England;  and  his  mother  was  a  woman 

1703 ;  died  March  n  .  ,     ■,  j      n  , 

2, 1791.  01  superior  mental  power,  and  of  earnest 

religious  character.     The  advantage  of  such  a  parent- 


JOHN    WESLEY.  313 

age  was  great.  The  young  Wesle3"s  had  in  theii* 
father  an  example  of  all  that  could  render  a  clerg}^- 
man  respectable  and  influential;  and  in  their  mother 
there  was  a  sanctified  wisdom,  a  masculine  under- 
standing, and  an  acquired  knowledge,  which  they  re- 
garded with  just  deference  after  they  became  men 
and  scholars.*  But  over  the  minds  of  the  rector  of 
Epworth  and  his  worthy  wife  there  hung  for  many 
years,  and,  indeed,  till  towards  the  close  of  their  life, 
considerable  obscurity  in  regard  to  evangelical  reli- 
gion. And  the  influence  of  this  obscurity  is  painfully 
traced  in  the  spiritual  history  of  their  children. 

John  Wesley  went  to  Oxford  in  his  eighteenth 
year,  full  of  gayety  and  sprightliness.  One  who  knew 
him  during  the  earlier  part  of  his  college  life  speaks 
of  him  as  a  young  fellow  of  the  finest  classical  taste, 
and  of  the  most  liberal  and  manly  sentiments.  As  a 
boy,  he  had  been  much  impressed  with  religion,  and 
had  been  admitted  by  his  fother  to  j)artake  of  the 
sacrament  at  the  age  of  eight  years.  And  when  he 
proposed  to  himself  to  take  deacons'  orders,  he  was 
roused  from  the  religious  carelessness  into  which  he 
had  fallen  at  college,  and  apj)lied  himself  diligently 
to  the  reading  of  books  on  theology.  His  mother 
observed  the  altered  tone  of  his  correspondence,  and 
expressed  her  hope  "that  it  might  proceed  from  the 
operations  of  God's  Spirit,  that,  by  taking  off  her 
son's  relish  for  earthly  enjoyments,  he  might  prepare 
and  dispose  his  mind  for  a  more  serious  and  close 
application  to  things  of  a  more  sublime  and  spiritual 
nature."  "If  it  be  so,"  she  said  to  him,  "happy  are 
you  if  you   cherish   those   dispositions,  and  now  in 

*  We  follow  Richard  Watson's  Life  of  John  Wesley. 


314  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

good  earnest  resolve  to  make  religion  the  business  of 
your  life;  for,  after  all,  that  is  the  one  thing  which, 
strictly  sjieaking,  is  necessary :  all  things  besides  are 
comparatively  little  to  the  purpose  of  life.  I  heartily 
wish  you  would  now  enter  upon  a  strict  examination 
of  yourself,  that  you  may  know  whether  you  have  a 
reasonable  hope  of  salvation  by  Jesus  Christ.  If  you 
have,  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  it  will  abundantly 
reward  your  pains;  if  you  have  not,  you  will  find  a 
more  reasonable  occasion  for  tears  than  can  be  met 
with  in  a  tragedy.  This  matter  deserves  great  con- 
sideration by  all,  but  especially  by  those  designed  for 
the  ministry,  who  ought,  above  all  things,  to  make 
their  own  calling  and  election  sure,  lest,  after  they 
have  preached  to  others,  they  themselves  should  be 
cast  away." 

These  maternal  counsels  were  devout  and  earnest, 
and,  though  not  in  all  resjiects  enlightened  or  fitted  to 
instruct  the  heavy-laden  how  he  might  be  freed  from 
the  burden  of  sin,  they  produced  a  deep  impression 
on  young  Wesley's  mind.  Of  the  same  character 
were  the  books  to  which  he  now  devoted  himself, — the 
"Christian's  Pattern,"  by  Thomas  h  Kempis;  and 
Taylor's  "Rules  of  Holy  Living  and  Dying," — ^booka 
which,  w^hatever  their  excellencies  or  defects,  are  rather 
manuals  for  those  who  are  Christians  than  directories 
to  those  who  are  seeking  to  become  such. 

John  Wesley  was  ordained  deacon  in  September, 
1725,  and  the  year  following  he  was  elected  Fellow  of 
Lincoln  College.  His  previous  seriousness  had  been 
the  subject  of  much  banter  and  ridicule,  and  appears 
to  have  been  urged  against  him,  in  the  election,  by 
his  opponents;  but  his  reputation  for  learning  and  dili- 
gence, and  the  excellence  of  his  character,  triumphed. 


CHARLES    WESLEY.  315 

Two  years  later  he  became  his  father's  curate;  in 
1728  he  obtained  jn'iests'  orders;  and  in  1729  he  was 
required  to  take  up  his  abode  in  Oxford  as  a  tutor  of 
his  college.  He  now  found,  already  in  existence,  a 
small  societ}',  of  which  he  soon  became  the  leader, — 
its  founder  having  been  his  brother  Charles. 

Charles  was  five  years  younger  than  John,  and, 
though   his   outward   conduct  was    un- 

11  11        1  11      1       11       1  1  Charles    Wes- 

blamable,  he  repelled  all  those  exhorta-    ley;  bom  i708: 

J.    ■    ^1  1-     •  died  1788. 

tions  to  a  more  strictly  religious  course 
which  John  seriously  urged  upon  him  after  he  was 
elected  to  Christ  Church.  But  when  John  returned 
to  Oxford,  in  1729,  he  found  his  brother,  he  says, 
''in  great  earnestness  to  save  his  soul."  His  own 
account  of  himself  is  that  he  lost  his  first  year  at 
college  in  diversions;  that  the  next  he  set  himself  to 
study;  that  diligence  led  him  into  serious  thinking; 
that  he  went  to  the  weekly  sacrament,  persuading  two 
or  three  students  to  accompany  him;  and  that  he 
observed  the  method  of  stud}^  prescribed  by  the  statutes 
of  the  university.  "This,"  he  says,  "gained  me  the 
harmless  name  of  Methodist."  To  the  society  of 
thoughtful  young  men  which  thus  gathered  around 
Charles  Wesley,  his  brother  John  joined  himself  on 
his  return  to  Oxford,  and  by  his  influence  and  energy 
gave  additional  vigour  to  their  exertions  to  promote 
their  own  spiritual  improvement  and  the  good  of 
others. 

The  strictly  religious  profession  which  Mr.  Wesley 
and  his  companions  now  made  excited  both  ridicule 
and  opposition.  But  were  these  young  men  at  this 
time  partakers  of  the  divine  life?  Were  they  new 
creatures  in  Christ  Jesus?  If  entire  sincerity  be 
sufficient  evidence  of  a  new  creation,  there  exists  no 


316  THE    DIVINE    LIFE. 

room  for  doubt.  And  yet  John  Wesley  thought  him- 
self, even  at  the  time,  to  be  but  "almost"  and  not 
''altogether"  a  Christian, — ''a  conclusion  (says  his  bio- 
grapher) of  a  very  perplexing  kind  to  many  who  have 
set  themselves  up  for  better  judges  in  his  case  than 
he  himself  From  a  similar  cause  we  have  seen  St. 
Paul  all  but  reproved  by  some  divines  for  representing 
himself  as  the  'chief  of  sinners'  at  the  time  when  he 
was  'blameless'  as  to  'the  righteousness  of  the  law;' 
and,  but  for  the  courtesy  due  to  an  inspired  man,  he 
would  probably,  in  direct  contradiction  to  his  own 
words,  have  been  pronounced  the  chief  of  saints, 
although  his  heart  remained  a  total  stranger  to  humi- 
lity and  charity." 

"If  our  views  of  personal  religion  must  be  taken 
from  the  New  Testament,"  Mr.  Watson  continues, 
"although  as  to  men  the  Wesleys  at  Oxford  were 
blameless  and  exemplary,  yet  in  respect  to  God  those 
internal  changes  had  not  taken  place  in  them  which 

it  is  the  office  of  real  Christianity  to  effect The 

very  writers — Bishop  Taylor  and  Mr.  Law — who  so 
powerfully  wrought  upon  their  consciences  were 
among  the  most  erring  guides  to  that  peace  of  God 
which  passeth  all  understanding  for  which  they  sighed; 
and  those  celebrated  divines,  excelled  by  none  for 
genius  and  eloquence,  who  could  draw  the  picture  of  a 
practical  piety  so  copious  and  exact  in  its  external 
manifestations,  were  unable  to  teach  that  mystic  con- 
nection of  the  branches  with  the  vine,  from  which  the 
only  fruits  that  are  of  healthy  growth  and  genuine 
flavour  can  proceed.  Both  are  too  defective  in  their 
views  of  faith,  and  its  object,  the  atonement  of  Christ, 
to  be  able  to  direct  a  penitent  and  troubled  spirit  into 
the  way  of  salvation,  and  to  show  how  all  the  prin- 


ERROR   AND    CONFLICT.  317 

ciples  and  acts  of  truly  Christian  piety  are  sustained, 
by  a  life  of  'faith  in  the  Son  of  God.'  " 

Bishop  Taylor's  chapter  on  purity  of  intention  first 
convinced  JVIr.  Wesley  of  the  necessity  of  being  holy 
in  heart,  as  well  as  regular  in  his  outward  conduct ; 
and  he  "  began  to  alter  the  whole  form  of  his  conver- 
sation, and  to  set  in  earnest  upon  a  new  life."  "  He 
communicated  every  week,"  we  are  told  in  his  Journal. 
"  He  watched  against  all  sin,  whether  in  word  or  deed, 
and  began  to  aim  at,  and  pray  for,  inward  holiness," 
but  still  with  a  painful  consciousness,  like  Luther  in 
his  cell,  that  he  found  not  that  which  he  so  earnestly 
Bought.  His  error  was  drawn  from  his  theological 
guides.  He  either  confounded  sanctification  with 
justification, — that  is,  a  change  of  heart  with  a  change 
of  state  before  God, — or  he  regarded  sanctification  as 
a  preparation  for  and  a  condition  of  justification.  He 
had  not  yet  learned  the  apostle's  doctrine,  the  gra- 
tuitous justification  of  "the  ungodly,"  when  penitent, 
simply  through  faith  in  Jesus  Christ;  nor  that  upon 
this  there  follows  "a,  death"  unto  inward  and  outward 
sin,  so  that  he  who  is  so  justified  can  "  no  longer  con- 
tinue therein."  It  was  through  the  agitations,  inqui- 
i-ies,  hopes,  and  fears  of  several  years,  that  the  mind 
of  John  Wesley  passed  to  the  enjoyment  of  that  stead- 
fast peace  which  never  afterwards  forsook  him,  but 
gave  serenity  to  his  countenance  and  cheerfulness  to 
his  heart  till  the  last  hour  of  a  prolonged  life. 

The  young  and  learned  "Methodists"  of  Oxford, 
while  yet  unacquainted  with  the  secret  of  peace  with 
God,  and  of  filial  affection  and  confidence  towards  him, 
devoted  themselves  earnestly  to  well-doing.  They 
visited  the  prisoners  in  Oxford  jail,  and  spent  two  or 
three  hours  a  week  in  visiting  and  relieving  the  poor 


318  THE   DIVINE   LIEE. 

and  the  sick.  Amidst  the  storm  of  oi^position  which 
practices  so  novel  awakened,  they  were  encouraged  by 
the  sanction  and  counsel  of  the  father  of  the  Weslej^s. 
The  rector  of  Epworth  blessed  God,  who  had  given 
him  two  sons  together  at  Oxfoi-d  who  had  received 
grace  and  courage  to  turn  the  war  against  the  world 
and  the  devil.  He  bade  them  defy  reproach,  and 
animated  them  in  God's  name  to  go  on  in  the  -paih  to 
which  their  Saviour  had  directed  them. 

The  eye  of  man  could  see  in  these  young  men 
nothing  but  a  mature  and  vital  Christianity.  That 
they  had  a  "  spirit  of  power"  is  very  manifest,  for 
they  could  endure  toil  and  reproach,  but  it  was  still 
''a  spirit  of  bondage  unto  fear;"  and  the  reason  is, 
that  they  were  seeking  justification  "by  the  works  of 
the  law."  "I  was  convinced  more  than  ever,"  says 
John  Wesley,  "of  the  exceeding  height  and  breadth 
and  depth  of  the  law  of  God.  The  light  flowed  in  so 
mightily  upon  my  soul  that  every  thing  appeared  in  a 
new  view.  I  cried  to  God  for  help,  and  resolved  not 
to  prolong  the  time  of  obeying  him,  as  I  had  never 
done  before.  And  by  my  continued  endeavour  to  keep 
his  whole  law,  inward  and  outward,  to  the  best  of  my 
power,  I  was  persuaded  that  I  should  be  accepted  of 
him,  and  that  I  was  even  then  in  a  state  of  salvation." 
At  the  period  to  which  these  words  refer,  John  Wesle}'' 
was  not  altogether  hopeless  of  finding  acceptance  with 
God  by  his  own  endeavours  to  keep  the  whole  law. 
And  he  persevered  diligently  in  the  rigid  practice  of 
every  discovered  duty,  in  the  hope  of  seizing  the  great 
prize  by  this  means.  But  he  soon  became  greatly 
surprised  that  he  was  so  far  from  obtaining  that 
settled  enjoyment  of  conscious  peace  with  God,  that 
love  to  him,  delight  in  him,  and  filial  access  to  him. 


WESLEY  IN   GEORGIA.  319 

■which  the  New  Testament  describes  as  the  privilege 
of  a  true  believer.  The  deep  tone  of  feeling,  and  the 
earnestness  of  his  inquiries,  in  his  correspondence  with 
his  mother  during  1732,  present  the  state  of  his  mind 
in  a  very  affecting  light.  He  then  needed  some  one 
more  fully  instructed  in  the  true  doctrine  of  salvation 
than  even  this  excellent  and  intelligent  "guide  of  his 
youth,"  to  teach  him  to  lay  down  the  burden  of  his 
wounded  and  anxious  sjiirit,  in  self-despair  as  to  his 
own  efforts,  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  of  Christ. 

In  1735,  the  trustees  of  the  new  colony  of  Georgia 
directed  their  attention  to  Mr.  John  Wesley,  and  some 
of  his  friends  at  Oxford,  as  peculiarly  qualified,  by  zeal 
and  piety  and  their  habits  of  self-denial,  to  administer 
to  the  spiritual  wants  of  the  colonists,  and  also  to  at- 
tempt the  conversion  of  the  Indians.  This  mission 
was  accepted  by  John  "Wesley  because  it  was  accom- 
panied with  the  certainty  of  great  hardships  and 
sufferings,  which  he  deemed  necessary  to  his  perfection. 
As  yet  he  put  mortification,  retirement,  and  contempt 
of  the  world,  too  much  in  the  place  of  that  divine 
atonement,  the  virtue  of  which,  when  received  by 
simple  faith,  at  once  removes  the  sense  of  guilt,  cheers 
the  spirit  by  a  peaceful  sense  of  accej)tance  through 
the  merits  of  Christ,  and  renews  the  whole  heart  after 
the  image  of  God. 

On  his  voyage  across  the  Atlantic,  John  "Wesley 
was  thrown  into  the  society  of  pious  Moravians,  who 
were  proceeding  to  settle  in  the  New  World,  and  saw 
m  them  the  hajDpy  fruits  of  a  genuine  faith.  Every 
day  gave  them  occasion  of  showing  a  meekness  which 
no  injury  could  move.  But  the  absence  of  the  spirit 
of  fear  struck  the  young  Englishman  still  more  than  the 


320  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

absence  of  the  spirit  of  anger  and  revenge.  That 
they  should  not  be  afraid  to  die  when  the  great  deep 
seemed  ready  to  swallow  them  up  was  to  him  a  great 
mystery.  And  thus  he  had  the  fii'st  glimpse  of  a 
religious  experience  which  keeps  the  mind  at  peace  in 
all  circumstances,  and  vanquishes  that  feeling  which 
a  formal  and  defective  religion  may  lull  to  temporary 
sleep,  but  cannot  eradicate, — "the  fear  of  death."  In 
conversation  with  a  Moravian  pastor  at  Savannah, 
he  was  asked,  "Do  you  know  Jesus  Christ/"'  He 
paused,  and  said,  "I  know  he  is  the  Saviour  of  the 
world."  "  True,"  replied  the  Moravian;  "but  do  you 
know  he  has  saved  you  ?"  Wesley  answered,  "I  hope 
he  has  died  to  save  me."  The  other  only  added,  "Do 
you  know  yourself?"  "I  do,"  was  the  reply.  But 
the  comment  of  later  years  was,  "I  fear  thej^  were 
vain  words." 

During  his  stay  in  Georgia,  John  "Wesley  spent  his 
whole  time  in  works  of  piety  and  mercy,  and  distri- 
buted his  income  so  profusely  in  charity  that  for  many 
months  together  he  had  not  one  shilling  in  the  house. 
In  the  prosecution  of  his  work  he  exposed  himself  to 
every  change  of  season,  frequently  slept  on  the  ground 
under  the  dews  of  night  in  summer,  and  in  winter 
with  his  hair  and  clothes  frozen  to  the  earth.  But  his 
preaching  was  defective  in  that  one  great  point  which 
gives  to  ])reaching  its  real  power  over  the  heart, — 
"  Christ  crucified." 

On  his  homeward  voyage,  the  language  of  his  still 
restless  heart  was,  "I  went  to  America  to  convert  the 
Indians:  but  oh!  who  shall  convert  me  ?  "Who  is  he 
that  will  deliver  me  from  this  evil  heart  of  unbelief? 
I  have  a  fair  summer  religion ;  I  can  talk  well ;  nay,  I 
believe  myself  safe,  while  no  danger  is  prcscnij  but  lot 


WESLEY  AND   MYSTICISM.  321 

death  look  me  in  the  face,  and  my  spirit  is  troubled; 
nor  can  I  say,  '  To  die  is  gain.'  "  The  returning  mis- 
sionary now  longed  for  a  faith  that  should  deliver  him 
entirely  from  guilty  dread;  but  his  notions  of  such  a 
faith  were  very  confused.  He  manifestly  regarded  it 
generally  as  a  principle  of  belief  in  the  gospel,  w^hich, 
by  quickening  his  efforts  after  greater  holiness,  would 
raise  him,  through  a  renewed  state  of  heart,  into 
acceptance  and  peace  with  God. 

John  Wesley  resorted  finally  to  the  mystic  writers, 
"whose  noble  descriptions  of  union  with  God,  and 
internal  religion,  made  every  thing  else  appear  mean, 
flat,  and  insipid.  But  in  truth  they  made  good  works 
appear  so  too,  yea,  and  faith  itself,  and  what  not? 
These  gave  me  (he  says)  an  entire  new  view  of  reli- 
gion, nothing  like  any  I  had  before.  But,  alas  !•  it 
was  nothing  like  that  religion  which  Christ  and  his 
apostles  lived  and  taught.  I  had  a  plenary  dispensa- 
tion from  all  the  commands  of  God :  the  form  ran 
thus : — 'Love  is  all;  all  the  commands  besides  are  only 
means  of  love ;  you  must  choose  those  which  you  feel 
are  means  to  you,  and  use  them  as  long  as  they  are 
so.'  Thus  were  all  the  bands  burst  at  once.  And 
though  I  could  never  fully  come  into  this,  nor  con- 
tented omit  what  God  enjoined,  yet,  I  know  not 
how,  I  fluctuated  between  obedience  and  disobedience. 
I  had  no  heart,  no  vigour,  no  zeal,  in  obeying,  con- 
tinually doubting  whether  I  was  right  or  wrong,  and 
never  out  of  perplexities  and  entanglements." 

"Wesley,  however,  was  delivered  from  the  errors  of 
the  mystics,  only  to  be  brought  back  to  the  point 
from  which  he  set  out, — with  this  difference,  that  he 
had  noAV  acquired  correct  views  of  his  own  spiritual 

21 


322  '       THE    DIVINE  LIFE. 

character  and  of  his  sijiritual  wants.  But  his  strug- 
gling soul  cannot  now  be  far  from  the  kingdom  of 
God.  Not  less  earnest  and  conscientious  in  obeying 
God's  will  than  before,  he  is  no  longer  dreaming  of 
finding  acceptance  through  his  own  endeavours.  He 
sees  clearly  that  he  must  be  justified  on  the  ground  of 
what  Christ  has  done  for  him. 

A  few  days  after  his  arrival  in  London,  John  Wesley 
met  with  Peter  Bohler,  a  minister  of  the  Moravian 
Church.  It  was  on  February  7, 1738,  which  he  marks 
as  "a  day  much  to  be  remembered."  In  their  conver- 
sation on  saving  faith,  Bohler  exclaimed  more  than 
once,  "My  brother,  that  philosophy  of  yours  must  be 
purged  away."  At  Oxford,  whither  he  had  gone  to 
visit  Charles,  who  was  sick,  he  again  met  with  his 
Moravian  friend,  "  by  whom,"  he  says,  "  in  the  hand 
of  the  great  God,  I  was  clearly  convinced  of  unbelief, 
of  the  want  of  that  faith  whereby  alone  we  are  saved 
with  the  full  Christian  salvation." 

''He  was  now  convinced,"  says  one  of  his  biogra- 
phers, ''that  his  faith  had  been  too  much  separated 
from  an  evangelical  view  of  the  promises  of  a  free 
justification,  or  pardon  of  sin,  through  the  atonement 
and  mediation  of  Christ  alone,  which  was  the  reason 
why  he  had  been  held  in  continual  bondage  and  fear." 
In  a  few  days  he  met  with  Peter  Bohler  again,  "who 
now,"  he  says,  "  amazed  me  more  and  more,  by  the 
accounts  he  gave  of  the  fruits  of  hving  faith,  and  the 
holiness  and  happiness  which  he  affirmed  to  attend  it. 
The  next  morning  I  began  the  Greek  Testament,  again 
resolving  to  abide  by  'the  law  and  the  testimon}^,' 
being  confident  that  God  would  hereby  show  me 
whether  this  doctrine  was  of  God." 

On  the  2-lth  of  May,  1738,  Wesley  emerged  out  of 


LIGHT   AND   LIBERTY.  323 

his  darkness  into  marvellous  light,  and  experienced 
for  the  first  time  the  full  liberty  of  the  sons  of  God. 
"  In  the  evening,"  he  says,  "  I  went,  very  unwillingly, 
to  a  society  in  Aldersgate  Street,  where  one  w^as  read- 
ing Luther's  '  Preface  to  the  Epistle  to  the  Eomans.' 
About  a  quarter  before  nine,  while  he  was  describing 
the  change  which  God  works  in  the  heart  through  faith 
in  Christ,  I  felt  my  heart  strangely  warmed.  I  felt  I 
did  trust  in  Christ,  Christ  alone,  for  salvation ;  and  an 
assurance  was  given  me  that  he  had  taken  away  my 
sins, — even  mine, — and  saved  me  fi-om  the  'law  of  sin 
and  death.' " 

''After  this,  he  had  some  struggles  with  doubt/' 
says  Mr.  Watson,  "  but  he  proceeded  from  strength  to 
strength,  till  he  could  say,  'Now  I  was  always  con- 
queror.' His  experience,  nurtured  by  habitual  prayer, 
and  deepened  by  unwearied  exertion  in  the  cause  of 
his  Saviour,  settled  into  that  steadfast  faith  and  solid 
peace  which  the  grace  of  God  perfected  in  him  to  the 
close  of  his  long  and  active  life." 

His  brother  Charles  (we  still  follow  ]\Ir.  "Watson's 
narrative)  was  also  made  partaker  of  the  same  grace. 
They  had  passed  together  through  the  briers  and 
thorns,  through  the  perplexities  and  shadows,  of  the 
legal  wilderness,  and  the  hour  of  their  deliverance 
was  not  far  separated.  Bohler  visited  Charles  in  his 
sickness  at  Oxford;  but  the  "Pharisee  within"  was 
somewhat  offended  when  the  honest  German  shook 
his  head  at  learning  that  his  hope  of  salvation  rested 
upon  "  his  best  endeavours."  After  his  recovery,  the 
reading  of  "Halyburton's  Life"  produced  in  him  a 
sense  of  his  want  of  that  faith  which  brings  "peace 
and  joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost."  Bohler  visited  him  again 
in  London;   and  he  began  seriously  to  consider  the 


324  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

doctrine  which  he  urged  upon  him.  His  convictions 
of  his  state  of  danger,  as  a  man  unjustified  before 
God,  and  of  his  need  of  the  faith  whereof  cometh  sal- 
vation, increased;  and  he  spent  his  whole  time  in  dis- 
coursing on  those  subjects,  in  prayer,  and  reading  the 
Scriptures.  Luther  on  the  Galatians  then  fell  into 
his  hands ;  and  on  reading  the  preface  he  observes,  "  I 
marvelled  that  we  were  so  soon  removed  from  him 
that  called  us  into  the  grace  of  Christ  unto  another 
gospel.  Who  would  believe  that  our  church  had  been 
founded  on  this  important  article  of  justification  by 
faith  alone?  I  am  astonished  I  should  ever  think 
this  a  new  doctrine ;  especially  while  our  Articles  and 
homilies  stand  unrepealed  and  the  key  of  knowledge 
is  not  yet  taken  away.  From  this  time  I  endeavoured 
to  ground  as  many  of  our  friends  as  came  to  see  me 
in  this  fundamental  truth, — salvation  by  faith  alone ; 
not  an  idle,  dead  faith,  but  a  faith  which  works  by 
love  and  is  incessantly  productive  of  all  good  works 
and  all  holiness." 

"On  Whitsunday,  May  21st,  Charles  Wesley  awoke 
in  hope  and  expectation  of  soon  attaining  the  object 
of  his  wishes,  the  knowledge  of  God  reconciled  in 
Christ  Jesus.  In  reading  various  portions  of  Scrip- 
ture on  that  day,  he  was  enabled  to  view  Christ  as  set 
forth  to  be  a  propitiation  for  his  sins  through  faith  in 
his  blood;  and  he  received  that  peace  and  rest  in  God 
which  he  so  earnestly  sought.  The  next  day  he 
greatly  rejoiced  in  reading  the  107th  Psalm,  so  nobly 
descriptive,  he  observes,  of  what  God  had  done  for  his 
soul.  He  had  a  very  humbling  view  of  his  own 
weakness;  but  was  enabled  to  contemplate  Christ  in 
his  power  to  save  to  the  uttermost  all  those  who  come 
unto  God  throiio-h  him." 


THE   TRUE   SOLUTION.  325 

The  comments  of  Mr.  Eichard  Watson  on  this  nar- 
rative are  so  appropriate  to  our  purpose,  that  we  shall 
quote  some  portion  of  them : — 

"It  is  easy  to  assail  with  ridicule  such  disclosures 
of  the  exercises  of  minds  impressed  with  the  great 
concern  of  salvation,  and  seeking  for  deliverance  from 
a  load  of  anxiety  'in  a  way  which  they  had  not  known,' 
and  flippantly  to  resolve  all  these  shadowings  of  doubt, 
these  dawnings  of  hope,  and  the  joyous  influence  of  the 
full  day  of  salvation,  as  some  have  done,  into  fancy, 
nervous  affection,  or  natural  constitution.  To  every 
truly  serious  mind  these  will,  however,  appear  subjects 
of  a  momentous  character;  and  no  one  will  proceed 
either  safely  or  soberly  to  judge  of  them,  who  does 
not  previously  inquire  into  the  doctrine  of  the  l^ew 
Testament  on  the  subject  of  human  salvation,  and 
apply  the  principles  which  he  may  find  there,  authen- 
ticated by  infallible  inspiration,  to  the  examination 
of  such  cases.  K  it  be  there  declared  that  the  state 
of  man  by  nature,  and  so  long  as  he  remains  unfor- 
given  by  his  offended  God,  is  a  state  of  awful  peril, 
then  the  all-absorbing  seriousness  of  that  concern  for 
deliverance  from  spiritual  danger  which  was  exhibited 
by  the  AVesleys  is  a  feeling  becoming  our  condition, 
and  is  the  only  rational  frame  of  mind  which  we  can 
cultivate.  If  we  are  required  to  be  of  an  humble  and 
broken  spirit,  and  if  the  very  root  of  true  repentance 
lies  in  godly  sorrow  for  sin,  then  their  humiliations 
and  self-reproaches  were  in  correspondence  with  a 
state  of  heart  which  is  enjoined  upon  all  by  an  au- 
thority which  we  cannot  dispute.  If  the  appointed 
method  of  man's  salvation,  laid  down  in  the  gospel, 
be  gratuitous  pardon  through  faith  in  the  merits  of 
Christ's  sacrifice,  and  if  a  method  of  seeking  justifi- 


o26  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

cation  by  works  of  moral  obedience  to  the  divine  law 
be  plainly  placed  by  St.  Paul  in  opposition  to  this,  and 
declared  to  be  vain  and  fruitless, — then  if  in  this  way 
the  "Wesleys  sought  their  justification  before  God,  we 
see  how  true  their  own  statements  of  necessity  have 
been,  that,  with  all  their  efforts,  they  could  obtain  no 
solid  peace  of  mind,  no  deliverance  from  the  enslaving 
fear  of  death  and  final  punishment,  because  they 
sought  that  by  imperfect  works  which  God  has  ap- 
pointed to  be  obtained  by  faith  alone.  .  .  .  For  the 
joyous  change  of  Mr.  "Wesley's  feelings,  upon  his  per- 
suasion of  his  personal  interest  in  Christ  through 
faith,  those  persons  who,  like  Dr.  Southey,  have  be- 
stowed upon  it  several  philosophic  solutions,  might 
have  found  a  better  reason  had  they  either  consulted 
St.  Paul,  who  says,  'We  joy  in  God,  by  whom  we  have 
received  the  reconciliation,'  or  their  own  chm'ch,  which 
has  emphatically  declared  that  the  doctrine  of  justifi- 
cation by  faith  is  not  only  very  wholesome,  but  also 
'very  full  of  comfort.'  " 

The  father  of  George  Whiteeield  was  proprietor 

of  the  Bell  Inn  at  Gloucester,  and  died 

flSdT^b^n'*at    whcn  Ms  youngcst  son,  George,  was  two 

Gloucester,  Dec.     jqq^j.^  q1^_    rpj^g  widowed  mothcr  was  very 

NewEngund.'"^  carcful  of  her  Benjamin's  education,  and 
"always  kept  him  in  his  tender  years 
from  intermeddling  in  the  least  with  the  tavern-busi- 
ness." Writing  of  his  childhood  in  after-years,  he 
said,  "  I  can  remember  such  early  stirrings  of  corrup- 
tion in  my  heart  as  abundantly  convince  me  that  I 
was  conceived  and  born  in  sin.  ...  I  was  so  brutish 
as  to  hate  instruction,  and  used  purposely  to  shun 
all  opportunities  of  receiving  it."     Among  "the  ini- 


GEORGE   WniTEFIELD.  327 

quities  of  his  youth/'  he  charges  himself  with  lying, 
filthy  talking,  foolish  jesting,  and  profane  swearing, 
— charges  which  some  who  disliked  the  doctrines  of 
his  after-ministry  compared  with  the  confessions  of 
the  "wild  and  fanatical  Theresa,"  but  with  much 
injustice  and  ignorance,  for  they  were  recorded  in 
a  spirit  of  deep  penitence.  "It  would  be  endless  to 
recount  the  sins  and  offences  of  my  younger  days," 
he  wi-ote.  "  They  are  more  in  number  than  the  hairs 
of  my  head.  My  heart  would  fail  me  at  the  remem- 
brance of  them,  were  I  not  assured  that  my  Eedeemer 
liveth  to  make  intercession  for  me.  However  the 
young  man  in  the  gospel  might  boast  that  he  had 
kept  the  commandments  from  his  'youth  up,'  with 
shame  and  confusion  of  face  I  confess  that  I  have 
broken  them  all  from  my  youth." 

In  the  midst  of  his  follies  he  had  some  early  con- 
victions of  sin,  but  they  were  transient  and  fruitless. 
Dui'ing  his  first  two  years  at  the  grammar-school 
(from  his  twelfth  to  his  fourteenth  year)  he  bought, 
and  read  with  much  attention,  "Ken's  Manual  for 
AYinehester  Scholars,"  a  book  commended  to  him  by 
the  use  made  of  it  by  his  mother  in  her  afflictions. 
During  a  residence  of  two  months  in  Bristol  he  ex- 
perienced some  awakenings  of  conscience.  Once  in 
St.  John's  Church  he  was  so  affected  by  the  sermon, 
that  he  resolved  to  prepare  himself  for  the  sacra- 
ment; and  during  his  stay  in  Bristol  reading  Thomas 
a  Kempis  was  his  chief  delight.  "  I  was  always  im- 
patient (he  says)  till  the  bell  rang  to  call  me  to  tread 
the  courts  of  the  Lord's  house.  But  in  the  midst 
of  these  illuminations  something  surely  whispered, 
^This  would  not  last.'  And,  indeed,  so  it  happened.. 
For — oh  that  I  could  write  it  in  tears  of  blood ! — 


328  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

when  I  left  Bristol  and  returned  to  Gloucester,  1 
changed  my  devotion  with  my  place.  Alas!  all  my 
fervour  went  off.  I  had  no  inclination  to  go  to 
church,  or  draw  nigh  to  God.  In  short,  my  heart 
was  far  from  him." 

"  Having  now,  as  I  thought,  nothing  to  do,  it  was 
a  proper  season  for  Satan  to  tempt  me.  Much  of  my 
time  I  spent  in  reading  plays,  and  in  sauntering  from 
place  to  place.  I  was  careful  to  adorn  my  body,  hut 
took  little  pains  to  deck  and  beautify  my  soul.  Evil 
communications  with  my  old  schoolfellows  soon  cor- 
ruj)ted  my  good  manners.  .  .  .  Having  thus  lived  with 
my  mother  for  some  considerable  time,  a  young  stu- 
dent, who  was  once  my  schoolfellow,  and  then  a  ser- 
vitor of  Pembroke  College,  Oxford,  came  to  pay  my 
mother  a  visit.  Among  other  conversation,  he  told 
her  how  he  had  discharged  all  college  expenses  that 
quarter  and  saved  a  penny.  Upon  that  my  mother 
immediately  cried  out,  'This  will  do  for  my  son.' 
Then,  turning  to  me,  she  said,  'Will  you  go  to  Oxford, 
George  V     I  replied,  '  With  all  my  heart.'  " 

The  university  had  often  been  thought  of,  but  the 
thought  was  dismissed  as  inxpracticable.  The  way 
seemed  now  to  open.  The  friends  who  had  procured 
for  George  Whitetield's  schoolfellow  a  servitor's  place 
were  his  friends  likewise.  And  the  young  aspirant 
resumed  his  classical  studies.  But  while  his  scholar- 
ship advanced,  his  morals  degenerated.  ''I  got  ac- 
quainted with  such  a  set  of  debauched,  abandoned, 
atheistical  youths,  that  if  God,  by  his  free,  unmerited, 
and  special  grace,  had  not  delivered  me  out  of  their 
hands,  I  should  have  sat  in  the  scorner's  chair  and 
made  a  mock  at  sin.  By  keeping  company  with  them, 
my  thoughts  of  religion  grew  more  and  more  like 


WHITEFIELD    AT   SEVENTEEN.  329 

theirs.  1  went  to  public  service  only  to  make  sport 
and  walk  about.  I  took  pleasure  in  their  lewd  con- 
versation. I  began  to  reason  as  they  did,  and  to  ask 
why  God  had  given  me  passions  and  not  permitted 
me  to  gratify  them.  In  short,  I  soon  made  great  pro- 
ficiency in  the  school  of  the  devil.  I  affected  to  look 
rakish,  and  was  in  a  fair  way  of  being  as  infamous  as 
the  worst  of  them." 

Such  was  George  "Whitefield  when  nearly  seventeen 
years  of  age,  and  preparing  for  the  university.  But 
God  stopped  him  when  running  on  in  a  full  career 
of  vice;  and  he  became  morally  reformed  and  out- 
wardly religious.  For  a  twelvemonth,  he  tells  us,  he 
went  on  in  a  round  of  duties,  receiving  the  sacrament 
monthly,  fasting  frequently,  attending  constantly  on 
public  worship,  and  praying,  often  more  than  twice  a 
day,  in  private. 

"When  Whitefield  entered  Oxford,  the  small  society 
of  which  the  Wesleys  were  the  centre  and  soul  had 
been  in  existence  for  five  years.  Its  members,  as  the 
reader  is  already  aware,  were  earnest  and  zealous,  but 
"ignorant  of  God's  righteousness."  One  year  after 
he  entered  the  university,  he  formed  their  acquaint- 
ance. At  this  time,  to  use  the  words  of  a  graphic 
writer,  "his  mind  became  so  burdened  with  the  great 
realities,  that  he  had  little  heart  for  study.  God 
and  eternity,  holiness  and  sin,  were  thoughts  which 
haunted  every  moment,  and  compelled  him  to  live  for 
the  salvation  of  his  soul;  but,  except  his  tutor  Wesley, 
and  a  few  gownsmen,  he  met  with  none  who  shared 
his  earnestness.  And,  though  earnest,  they  were  all 
in  error.  Among  the  influential  minds  of  the  univer- 
sity there  was  no  one  to  lead  them  into  the  knowledge 
of  the  gospel,  and  they  had  no  religious  guides,  except 


330  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

the  genius  of  the  place,  and  books  of  their  own 
choosing.  The  genius  of  the  place  was  an  ascetic 
quietism.  Its  libraries  full  of  clasped  schoolmen  and 
tall  fathers,  its  cloisters  so  solemn  that  a  hearty  laugh 
or  hurried  step  seemed  sinful,  and  its  halls  lit  with 
mediasval  sunshine,  perpetually  invited  their  inmates 
to  meditation  and  silent  reflection;  whilst  the  early 
tinkle  of  the  chapel  bell,  and  the  frosty  routine  of 
winter  matins,  the  rubric  and  the  founder's  rules,  pro- 
claimed the  religious  benefits  of  bodily  exercise.  The 
Eomish  postern  had  not  then  been  reopened;  but, 
with  no  devotional  models  save  the  marble  Bernards 
and  De  Wykhams,  and  no  spiritual  illumination 
except  what  came  in  by  the  north  windows  of  the 
past,  it  is  not  surprising  that  ardent  but  reverential 
young  men  should  in  such  a  place  have  unwittingly 
groped  into  a  Eomish  pietism.  "With  an  awakened 
conscience  and  a  resolute  will,  young  Whitefield  went 
through  the  sanatory  specifics  of  a  Kemj)is,  Castanza, 
and  William  Law;  and  in  his  anxiety  to  exceed  all 
that  is  required  in  the  rubric,  he  would  fast  during 
Lent  on  black  bread  and  sugarless  tea,  and  stand  in 
the  cold  till  his  nose  was  red  and  his  fingers  blue, 
whilst,  in  the  hope  of  temptation  and  wild  beasts,  he 
would  wander  through  Christ  Church  meadows  over 
dark."  It  was  w^hilst  pursuing  this  course  of  self- 
righteous  fanaticism  that  he  was  seized  with  an  alarm- 
ing illness. 

The  seven  weeks'  sickness  through  which  Whitefield 
now  passed,  he  calls  in  his  journal  a  "glorious  visita- 
tion." The  Wesleys  were  constant  and  brotherly  in 
their  attentions,  but  they  were  miserable  comforters. 
Charles  refeiTcd  him  to  chapters  in  h,  Kempis :  John 
to  the  maxima  of  quietism.     But  in  vain.     "All  my 


PEACE   IN   BELIEVING.  331 

former  gross,  notorious,  and  even  my  heart  sins  also, 
were  now  set  home  upon  me,'*  he  writes.  "Unable 
to  sustain  such  views  of  the  evil  of  sin,  and  having 
failed  in  all  his  former  eiforts  to  remove  a  sense  of 
guilt  by  a  series  of  observances,  he  was  now  '  shut  up 
to  the  faith.'"  "Whilst  praying  and  yearning  over 
his  Greek  Testament,  the  'open  secret'  flashed  upon 
his  view."  He  discovered  the  true  grounds  of  a  sin- 
ner's hope  and  justification.  The  testimony  of  God 
concerning  his  Son  brought  peace  and  life.  "I  found 
and  felt  in  myself  that  I  was  delivered  from  the 
burden  that  had  so  heavily  oppressed  me.  The  spirit 
of  mourning  was  taken  fi-om  me,  and  I  knew  what  it 
was  truly  to  rejoice  in  God  my  Saviour.  For  some 
time  I  could  not  avoid  singing  psalms  wherever  I  was; 
but  my  joy  became  gradually  more  settled.  Thus  were 
the  days  of  my  mourning  ended :  after  a  long  life  of 
desertion  and  temptation,  the  star  which  I  had  seen 
at  a  distance  before  began  to  appear  again;  the  day- 
star  arose  in  my  heart." 

Whitefield's  youthful  austerities  and  superstitions 
only  increased  the  spirit  of  bondage,  and  diverted  him 
from  God's  appointed  remedy.  It  was  faith  in  Christ 
that  delivered  him  from  the  bondage  of  sin  and  fear. 
"The  discovery  of  a  completed  and  gratuitous  salva- 
tion filled  with  ecstasy  a  spirit  prepared  to  appreciate 
it,  and,  from  their  great  deep  breaking,  his  affections 
thenceforward  flowed,  impetuous  and  uninterrupted, 

in  the  one  channel  of  love  to  the  Saviour He 

traversed  Englahd,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  for  four-and- 
thirty  years,  and  crossed  the  Atlantic  thirteen  times, 
proclaiming  the  love  of  God  and  his  great  gift  to 
naan.  A  bright  and  exulting  view  of  the  atonement's 
sufficiency  was  his  theology;   delight    in   God   and 


332  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

rejoicing  in  Christ  Jesus  were  his  piety;  and  a  com- 
passionate solicitude  for  the  souls  of  men  was  his 
ruling  passion." 

The  great  truth  which  stands  forth  so  prominently 
in  AVhitefield's  personal  experience  is  equally  promi- 
nent in  the  history  of  his  ministerial  successes :  the 
love  of  God,  as  exhibited  in  the  atoning  death  of  his 
Son,  is  the  mighty  instrument  by  which  souls  are  con- 
verted and  made  partakers  of  the  divine  life. 

The  manner  of  Whitefield  as  a  preacher,  it  is  true, 
was  singularly  effective.  He  had  a  voice  of  rich  com- 
pass, which  could  equally  thrill  over  Moorfields  in 
musical  thunder,  or  whisper  its  terrible  secret  in  every 
private  ear;  and  to  this  tuneful  voice  he  added  a 
most  expressive  and  eloquent  action.  ''Improved  by 
conscientious  practice,  and  instinct  with  his  earnest 
nature,  this  elocution  was  the  acted  sermon,  and  by 
its  pantomimic  portrait  enabled  the  eye  to  anticipate 
each  rapid  utterance,  and  helped  the  memory  to  trea- 
sure up  the  palpable  ideas.  .  .  .  His  thoughts  were 
possessions,  and  his  feelings  were  transformations; 
and  if  he  spoke  because  he  felt,  his  hearers  understood 
because  they  saw.  They  were  not  only  enthusiastic 
amateurs,  like  Garrick,  who  ran  to  weep  and  tremble 
at  his  bursts  of  passion,  but  even  the  colder  critics  of 
the  Walpole  school  were  surprised  into  momentary 
sympathy  and  reluctant  wonder.  Lord  Chesterfield 
was  listening  in  Lady  Huntingdon's  pew  when  White- 
field  was  comparing  the  benighted  sinner  to  a  bhud 
beggar  on  a  dangerous  road.  The  beggar's  little  dog 
gets  away  from  him  when  skirting  the  edge  of  a 
precipice,  and  he  is  left  to  explore  the  path  with  his 
iron-shod  staff.    On  the  very  verge  of  the  cliff  this  blind 


whitefield's  preaching.  333 

guide  (the  staff)  slips  through  his  fingers  and  skims 
away  down  the  abyss.  All  unconscious,  its  owner 
stoops  down  to  regain  it,  and,  stumbling  forward — 
'Good  God!  he  is  gone!'  shouted  Chesterfield,  who 
bad  been  watching  with  breathless  alarm  the  blind 
man's  movements,  and  who  jumped  from  his  seat  to 
save  the  catastrophe.  But  the  glory  of  WhitefiekVs 
preaching  was  its  heart-kindled  and  heart-melting  gospel. 
But  for  this  all  his  bold  strokes  and  brilliant  surprises 
might  have  been  no  better  than  the  rhetorical  triumphs 
of  Kirwan  and  other  pulpit  dramatists.  He  was  an 
orator,  but  he  only  sought  to  be  an  evangelist." 

The  atheistic  philosopher,  David  Hume,  shall  bear 
witness  to  the  principle  on  which  we  insist.  He 
heard  Whitefield  preach  on  one  occasion,  and  gave 
this  account  of  the  sermon.  Towards  the  end,  "  after 
a  solemn  pause,  Mr.  Whitefield  thus  addressed  the 
audience : — *  The  attendant  angel  is  just  about  to  leave 
the  threshold  and  ascend  to  heaven.  And  shall  he 
ascend  and  not  bear  with  him  the  news  of  one  sinner, 
among  all  this  multitude,  reclaimed  from  the  error  of 
his  ways?'  The  preacher  then  stamped  with  his  foot, 
lifted  up  his  hands  and  eyes  to  heaven,  and  with  gush- 
ing tears  cried  aloud,  'Stop,  Gabriel!  stop  ere  you 
enter  the  sacred  portal,  and  yet  carry  with  you  the 
news  of 'one  sinner  converted  to  God.'"  "We  can 
imagine  the  awe  produced  by  such  an  appeal.  But 
all  that  mode  and  tone  and  startling  attitude  could 
effect  would  fall  short  of  the  conversion  of  the  heart 
to  God.  Then  let  us  hear  the  further  statement  of 
this  unbelieving  witness: — "Mr.  Whitefield  then,  in 
most  simple  but  energetic  language,  described  what 
he  called  a  Saviour's  dying  love  to  sinful  man,  so  that 
almost  the  whole  assembly  melted  into  tears."     The 


334  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

secret  is  now  out.  "A  Saviour's  dying  love  to  sinful 
man."  This  is  the  mighty  charm  of  the  gospel.  This 
is  the  banner  -which  Whitefield  unfurled,  and  "by 
this"  he  conquered. 

"This  is  the  word  of  truth  and  love, 
Sent  to  the  nations  from  above. 
******* 
This  remedy  did  wisdom  find 
To  heal  diseases  of  the  mind; 
This  sovereign  balm,  whose  virtues  can 
Kestore  the  ruin'd  creature  man." 

Let  one  instance  out  of  multitudes  be  taken  as 
illustrative  of  the  power  of  that  gospel  which  White- 
field  preached  to  reclaim  and  elevate  the  very  lowest. 
Some  ladies,  who  had  gone  to  hear  him  at  Lady 
Huntingdon's  request,  reported  their  opinion  in  these 
terms: — "Oh,  my  lady,  of  all  the  preachers  we  ever 
heard,  he  is  the  most  strange  and  unaccountable. 
Among  other  preposterous  things  (would  your  lady- 
shij)  believe  it?)  he  declared  that  Jesus  Christ  was  so 
willing  to  receive  sinners  that  he  did  not  object  to 
receive  even  the  devil's  castaways.  Now,  my  lady,  did 
you  ever  hear  svich  a  thing  since  you  were  born?" 
To  which  her  ladyship  made  the  following  reply : — 
"There  is  something,  I  acknowledge,  a  little  singular 
in  the  invitation,  and  I  do  not  recollect  to  have  ever 
heard  it  before;  but  as  ]\Ir.  Whitefield  is  below  in 
the  parlour,  we'll  have  him  up  and  let  him  Answer  for 
himself."  Mr.  Whitefield  immediately  acknowledged 
having  used  the  obnoxious  exjDression,  and  added, 
"  Whether  I  did  what  was  right  or  otherwise,  your 
ladyship  shall  judge  from  thefollowingcircumstance : — 
Did  your  ladyship  notice,  about  half  an  hour  ago,  a 
very  modest  single  rap  at  the  door?  It  was  given  by 
a  poor,  miserable-looking,  aged  female,  who  requested 
to  speak  with  me.     I  desired  her  to  be  shown  into  the 


THE   KINGSWOOD   COLLIERS.  335 

parlour,  where  she  accosted  me  in  the  following  man- 
ner:— 'I  believe,  sir,  you  preached  last  evening  at  such 
a  chapel  ?'  '  Yes,  I  did.'  'Ah !  sir,  I  was  accidentally 
passing  the  door  of  that  chapel,  and,  hearing  the  voice 
of  some  one  preaching,  I  did  what  I  have  never  been 
in  the  habit  of  doing, — I  went  in ;  and  one  of  the  first 
things  I  heard  you  say,  was  that  Jesus  Christ  was  so 
willing  to  receive  sinners  that  he  did  not  object  to  re- 
ceiving the  devil's  castaways.  Now,  sir,  I  have  been 
on  the  town  for  many  years,  and  am  so  worn  out  in 
his  service,  that  I  think  I  may  with  truth  be  called 
one  of  the  devil's  castaways :  do  you  think,  sir,  that 
Jesus  Christ  would  receive  me  ?' "  Mr.  Whitefield 
assured  her  there  was  no  doubt  of  it,  if  she  were  but 
willing  to  go  to  him.  From  the  sequel  it  appeared 
that  this  poor  creature  was  truly  converted  to  God. 
And  on  her  death-bed  she  left  the  most  satisfactory 
testimony  that  through  the  blood  of  Jesus  Christ  she 
had  found  peace  with  God,  and  had  been  restored  to 
his  likeness.  If  we  admire  the  process  by  which  the 
putrefying  morass  is  turned  into  a  fruitful  field,  and 
the  malaria  of  death  replaced  by  the  breezes  of  life 
and  health,  shall  we  not  much  more  admire  the  renew- 
ing of  a  soul  so  debasedly  corrupt,  and  the  blessed 
truth  by  which  it  was  eflected  ? 

The  colliers  of  Kingswood,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Bristol,  were  notorious  for  their  wicked 
and  brutal  manners,  and  were  a  terror  to     -wood  corners. 
their  neighbourhood.    It  was  in  the  midst 
of  these  English  savages  that  Mr.  Whitefield  erected 
his  first  field-pulpit.     On  the  afternoon  of  Saturday, 
Feb.  17,  1789,  two  hundred  of  them  gathered  around 
him.  on  Eose  Green,  attracted  probably  by  the  novelty 


oob  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

of  the  scene.  Every  time  he  went  to  Kingswood,  the 
number  of  his  hearers  increased.  Thousands  of  all 
ranks  flocked  from  Bristol  and  the  neighbourhood,  and 
the  congregation  was  sometimes  computed  at  twenty 
thousand.  Many  of  the  outcast  colliers,  who  had  never 
been  in  a  place  of  w^orship  in  their  lives,  received  the 
w^ord  with  eagerness  and  gladness.  "Having,"  as  Mr. 
"Whitefield  writes,  "  no  righteousness  of  their  own  to 
renounce,  they  were  glad  to  hear  of  a  Jesus  who  was 
a  friend  to  publicans  and  came  not  to  call  the  right- 
eous but  sinners  to  repentance.  The  first  discovery 
of  their  being  affected  was  to  see  the  white  gutters 
made  by  their  tears,  which  plentifully  fell  down  their 
black  cheeks,  as  they  came  out  of  their  coal-pits. 
Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  them  were  soon  brought 
under  deep  convictions,  which,  as  the  event  proved, 
happily  ended  in  a  sound  and  thorough  conversion. 
The  change  was  visible  to  all,  though  numbers  chose 
to  impute  it  to  any  thing  rather  than  the  finger  of 
God."  "  Many  an  evil  life  was  fashioned  anew,  and 
many  a  wretched  home  lighted  up  with  the  charities 
and  the  joys  of  pure  religion." 

What,  in  this  case,  was  the  true  means  of  conver- 
sion'/  What  was  it  that  reached  the  hearts  of  the 
colliers  of  Kingswood  and  made  them  men  by  making 
them  Christians?  There  was  much  in  the  manner  of 
the  preacher  to  interest  and  move  them,  it  is  true;  and 
perhaps  something  in  the  circumstances  to  awe  them. 
"The  oj>en  firmament  above  me,"  he, writes  himself, 
"  the  prospect  of  the  adjacent  fields,  with  the  sight  of 
thousands  and  thousands,  some  in  coaches,  some  on 
horseback,  and  some  on  the  trees,  and  at  times  all 
affected  and  drenched  in  tears  together,  to  which 
sometimes  was  added  the  solemnity  of  the  approach- 


TRUE   CONVERSION.  337 

ing  evening,  was  almost  too  much  for,  and  quite  over- 
came me."  All  very  natural ;  but  neither  in  the  elo- 
quence of  the  preacher,  nor  in  the  circumstantial  ac- 
companiments of  his  preaching,  do  we  find  the  secret 
of  the  power  which  reached  his  hearers'  hearts  and 
turned  them  to  God.  We  must  look  for  it  in  the  truth 
preached. 

And  what  was  that  truth  ?  The  orator  "  spoke  of 
an  infinite  sin,"  says  one  writer;  "he  spoke  of  an 
infinite  love :  he  spoke  of  that  which  was  true  then, 
whatever  might  be  true  hereafter.  He  said.  Thou 
art  in  a  wrong  state  :  hell  is  about  thee.  God  would 
bring  thee  into  a  right  state ;  he  would  save  thee  out 
of  that  state."  This  statement  is  ambiguous  and  de- 
fective. "  "What  the  orator  really  talked  of,"  says  an- 
other writer,  "  was  the  wrath  of  God  revealed  from 
heaven  against  all  ungodliness  and  unrighteousness  of 
men ;  and  the  mercy  of  God  also  revealed  from  heaven 
in  the  gospel  of  his  grace.  He  told  collier,  formalist, 
self-righteous  boaster, — all  alike, — that  they  were 
guilty  and  needed  pardon;  that  they  were  corrupt 
and  needed  renovation;  that  Jesus  Christ  came  into 
the  world  to  save  sinners,  to  give  himself  a  ransom 
for  them.  He  exhorted  them  to  flee  from  the  wrath 
to  come,  and  lay  hold  on  eternal  life.  .  .  .  The  early 
triumphs  of  the  Methodist  preaching  were  based  upon 
appeals  to  the  conscience.  The  '  orator'  spoke  to  men 
as  criminals, — giiilty,  condemned,  depraved.  Their 
own  hearts  confessed  the  charge  to  be  true.  The 
Holy  Spirit  convinced"  them.  They  were  told  that 
God  in  love  had  given  his  Son  to  die  in  their  stead, 
and  was  giving  his  Spirit  to  make  them  new  creatures 
in  his  Son.  They  believed  that  there  was  a  righteous 
pardon  for  their  deep  guilt,  and  a  complete  renewal 

22 


^'"pe'b.^eth!     spirit  of  serious   attention   to   the  con- 
^fifh'i^nn^  ^^'^'     cerns  of  religion.     He  received  the  eom- 


338  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

for  their  impure  and  unholy  nature,  in  Christ,  pre- 
sented to  them  in  the  gospel.  And  this  faith  was 
their  victory." 

James  Hervey,  when  twenty  years  of  age,  formed 
the  acquaintance  of  Whitcfield,  Wesley,  and  their  as- 
sociates  at    Oxford,   and   imbibed   their 

OS  Hervey; 
born 
1713; 
25th,  1758. 

munion  every  Sabbath,  visited  the  pri- 
soners in  the  jail,  and  read  the  Scriptures  to  the  sick 
and  the  poor.  At  this  time,  however,  and  during  the 
earlier  years  of  his  ministry,  he  was  practically  a 
//'stranger  to  those  views  of  Christian  doctrine  which, 
'  as  preached  by  his  friend  Mr.  Whitefield,  proved  so 
mighty  an  instrument  of  converting  many  to  God :  he 
entertained  the  deepest  aversion  to  them.  He  regarded 
salvation  as  a  blessing  which  should  be  bestowed  on 
sincere,  pious,  and  worthy  j)ersons.  And  when  he  felt 
himself  deficient  in  duty,  he  would  comfort  himself 
with  saj^ing,  "Soul,  thy  God  only  requires  sincere  obe- 
dience, and  perhaps  to-morrow  may  be  more  abundant 
in  acts  of  holiness."  When  overcome  by  sin,  he  would 
call  to  mind  his  righteous  deeds,  and  so  hope  to  com- 
mute with  divine  justice  and  quit  scores  for  his  offences 
by  his  duties.  In  order  to  be  reconciled  to  God,  or  to 
ease  his  conscience,  he  would  promise  stricter  watch- 
fulness, more  alms,  and  renewed  fastings.  He  did  not 
overlook  the  death  of  Christ  as  procuring  the  remis- 
sion of  sins;  but  eternal  life,  h'e  imagined,  must  be  ob- 
tained by  his  own  doings. 

In  the  parish  of  Weston  Favel,  where  he  was  his 
father's  curate,  there  resided  a  ploughman,  who  usually 
attended  the  ministry  of  Dr.  Doddridge  in  the  neigh- 


SELF-DENIAL.  339 

bouring  town  of  Northampton.  Mr.  Hervej  very  fre- 
quently accompanied  the  ploughman  in  his  rural  em- 
ployment for  the  sake  of  his  health.  Understanding 
the  ploughman  to  be  a  religious  person,  he  said  to  him 
one  day,  "What  do  you  think  is  the  hardest  thing  in 
religion  ?"  To  which  he  replied,  "  I  am  a  poor  ilUte- 
rate  man,  and  you,  sir,  are  a  minister:  I  beg  leave 
to  return  the  question."  Then  said  Mr.  Hervey,  "  I 
think  the  hardest  thing  is  to  deny  sinful  self,"  ground- 
ing his  opinion  on  that  solemn  admonition  of  our 
Lord,  "  If  any  man  will  come  after  me,  let  him  deny 
himself."  "I  argued,"  said  Mr.  Hervey,  afterwards, 
"upon  the  import  and  extent  of  the  duty,  showing 
that  merely  to  forbear  the  infamous  action  is  little: 
we  must  deny  admittance,  deny  entertainment,  at 
least,  to  the  evil  imagination,  and  quench  even  the 
unkindling  spark  of  irregular  desire.  In  this  way 
I  shot  my  random  bolt."  The  ploughman  replied, 
"There  is  another  kind  of  self-denial  to  which  the 
injunction  goes ;  it  is  of  great  consequence,  and  the 
hardest  thing  in  rehgion :  and  that  is,  to  deny  right- 
eous self"  He  went  on  to  say  with  what  pleasure 
ho  and  his  family  had  for  a  long  time  enjoyed  the 
ordinances  of  religion  under  the  ministry  of  Dr. 
Doddridge,  and  added,  "But  to  this  moment  I  find 
it  the  hardest  thing  to  deny  righteous  self;  I  mean 
the  renouncing  of  our  own  strength,  and  of  our  own 
righteousness: — not  leaning  on  that  for  holiness  nor 
relying  on  this  for  justification."  In  repeating  the 
story  to  a  friend,  Mr.  Hervey  observed,  "I  then 
hated  the  righteousness  of  Christ;  I  looked  at  the 
man  with  astonishment  and  disdain,  and  thought 
him  an  old  fool,  and  wondered  at  what  I  then  fan- 
cied the  motley  mixture  of  piety  and  oddity  in  his 


340  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

notions.  I  liave  since  clearly  seen  who  was  the  fool, 
— not  the  wise  old  Christian,  but  the  proud  James 
Hervey:  I  now  discern  sense,  solidity,  and  truth  in 
his  observations." 

The  change  which  this  confession  indicates  took 
place  in  the  twenty-seventh  year  of  his  age.  The 
light  which  disj)elled  his  errors  was  not  instanta- 
neous, he  says,  but  gradual :  "  it  did  not  flash  upon 
his  soul,  but  arose  like  the  dawning  of  the  day."  The 
discovery  of  the  extent  of  the  requirements  of  the  law 
of  God  proved  fatal  to  the  hopes  he  was  building  on 
his  own  doings,  and  happily  there  came  along  with  it 
a  discovery  of  the  all-sufficiency  of  the  atonement  and 
righteousness  of  Jesus  Christ.  His  own  words  are, 
''  The  two  great  commandments,  *  Thou  shalt  love  the 
Lord  thy  God  with  all  thine  heart,'  and  '  Thou  shalt 
love  thy  neighbour  as  thyself,'  made  the  first  awaken- 
ing impression  on  my  heart.  Amazing!  thought  I: 
are  these  commands  of  God  as  obligatory  as  the 
prohibition  of  adultery  or  the  observation  of  the 
Sabbath?  Then  has  my  whole  life  been  a  con- 
tinued act  of  disobedience;  not  a  day  nor  an  hour 
in  which  I  have  performed  my  duty.  This  convic- 
tion," he  says,  "  struck  me  as  the  handwriting  upon 
the  wall  struck  the  presumptuous  monarch.  It  pur- 
sued me  as  Paul  pursued  the  Christians,  not  only  to 
my  OAvn  house,  but  to  distant  cities,  nor  ever  gave 
XI])  the  great  controversy  till,  under  the  influence 
of  the  Spirit,  it  brought  me  weary  and  heavy  laden 
to  Jesus  Christ." 

]\Ii'.  Hervey  now  wondered  how  he  could  have  read 
the  Bible  so  often  and  overlooked  its  revelation  of 
righteousness.  "  When  he  saw  it  he  rejoiced  with 
exceeding  joy.     It  solved  every  problem,  and  filled 


SAMUEL   WALKER.  341 

every  void.  It  lit  up  the  Bible,  and  it  kindled  Chris- 
tianity. It  gave  emancipation  to  his  spirit  and  motion 
to  his  ministry;  and,  whilst  it  filled  his  own  soul  with 
happiness,  it  made  him  eager  to  transmit  the  benefit." 
But  his  frame  was  feeble.  He  could  not  imitate  his 
college  tutor,  John  "Wesley,  and  his  college  friend, 
George  Whitefield,  in  their  mode  of  labour,  and  he 
was  constrained  to  use  his  pen.  And  with  this  instru- 
ment, dipped  in  love  and  beauty,  he  contributed  much 
to  the  revival  of  genuine  religion.  And  if  his  writings 
are  too  gorgeous  to  be  purely  classical,  they  were 
singularly  adapted  to  their  age.  Their  mellow  in- 
fluence may  still  be  traced.  Their  spirit  is  that  of 
"  securest  faith,  and  sunniest  hope,  and  most  seraphic 
love."  And  "  it  were  a  blessed  ambition  to  emulate 
their  author's  large  and  lightsome  piety, — his  heart 
'  open  to  the  whole  noon  of  nature,'  and  through  all 
its  brightness  drinking  the  smile  of  a  present  God." 

"  In  the  middle  of  last  century,  evangelical  religion 
derived  its  main  impulse  fx'om  AYhitefield,  Wesley,  and 
Hervey.  But  though  there  was  none  to  rival  White- 
field's  flaming  eloquence,  or  Wesley's  versatile  ubi- 
quity, or  the  popularity  of  Hervey's  gorgeous  pen, 
there  were  many  among  their  contemporaries  who, 
as  one  by  one  they  learned  the  truth  in  their  own 
department  or  district,  did  their  utmost  to  diffuse  it." 
The  spiritual  history  of  two  or  three  of  these  worthies, 
Walker,  Toplady,  and  Berridge,  we  abridge  from 
graphic  sketches  by  Dr.  James  Hamilton. 

In  the  summer  of  1746,  Sa:\iuel  Walker  became 
curate  of  the  gay  little  capital  of  Western 

11      TT  1  1  1-1  Saml.  Walker; 

Cornwall.  He  was  clever  and  accomplish-  bom  1714 ;  died 
ed, — had  learned  from  books  the  leading 


342  THE   DIVINE  LIFE. 

doctrines  of  Christianity,  and,  whilst  mainly  anxious 
to  be  a  popular  preacher,  had  a  distinct  desire  to  do 
good, — but  did  none.  The  master  of  the  grammar- 
school  was  a  man  of  splendid  scholarship,  but  much 
hated  for  his  piety.  One  day  Mr.  Walker  received 
from  him  a  note,  with  a  sum  of  money,  requesting 
him  to  pay  it  to  the  Custom-House.  For  his  health 
Mr.  Conon  had  been  advised  to  drink  some  French 
wine,  but  on  that  smuggling  coast  could  procure  none 
on  which  duty  had  been  paid.  Wondering  whether 
this  tenderness  of  conscience  pervaded  all  his  charac- 
ter, Mr.  Walker  sought  Mr.  Conon' s  acquaintance,  and 
was  soon  as  completely  enchained  by  the  sweetness  of 
his  disposition  as  he  was  awed  and  astonished  by  the 
purity  and  elevation  of  his  conduct.  It  was  from  the 
good  treasure  of  this  good  man's  heart  that  Mr.  Walker 
received  the  gospel.  Having  learned  it,  he  proclaimed 
it,  Truro  was  in  an  uproar.  To  hear  their  general 
depravity,  and  to  have  urged  on  them  repentance  and 
the  need  of  a  new  nature  by  one  who  had  so  lately 
mingled  in  all  their  gayeties  and  been  the  soul  of  gen- 
teel amusement,  was  first  startling  and  then  offensive. 
But  soon  faithful  preaching  began  to  tell.  And  in  a 
few  years  upwards  of  eight  hundred  parishioners  had 
called  on  him  to  ask  what  they  must  do  for  their  souls' 
salvation;  and  his  time  was  mainly  occupied  in  in- 
structing large  classes  of  his  hearers  who  wished  to 
live  godly,  righteously,  and  soberly  in  this  evil  world. 
One  November  a  body  of  troojDS  arrived  in  his  parish 
for  winter  quarters.  He  immediately  commenced  an 
afternoon  sermon  for  their  special  benefit.  He  found 
them  grossly  ignorant.  But  when  they  came  under 
the  sound  of  his  tender  but  energetic  voice  the  effect 


AUGUSTUS    TOPLADY.  343 

was  instantaneous.  "With  few  excej)tions,  tears  burst 
from  every  eye,  and  confessions  of  sin  from  almost 
every  mouth.  In  less  than  nine  weeks  no  fewer  than 
two  hundi*ed  and  fifty  had  sought  his  private  instruc- 
tions; and  though  at  tirst  the  officers  were  alarmed  at 
such  an  outbreak  of  "Methodism"  among  their  men, 
BO  evident  was  the  improvement  which  took  place,  so 
rare  had  punishments  become,  and  so  promptly  were 
commands  obeyed,  that  the  officers  waited  on  Mr. 
Walker  in  a  body,  to  thank  him  for  the  reformation 
he  had  effected  in  their  ranks.  On  the  morning 
of  their  march  many  of  these  brave  fellows  were 
heard  praising  God  for  having  brought  them  under 
the  sound  of  the  gospel,  and,  as  they  caught  the 
last  glimpses  of  the  town,  exclaimed,  "  God  bless 
Truro." 


In  the  adjacent  county  of  Devon,  and  in  one  of  its 
sequestered  passes,  with  a  few  cottages  sprinkled 
over    it,    mused    and    sang    Augustus 

-t-l-ri  1        1  n        •  1  Augustus  Top- 

ToPLADT.  when  a  lad  of  sixteen,  and  lady:  bom  1740 : 
on  a  visit  to  Ireland,  he  had  strolled 
into  a  barn,  where  an  illiterate  layman  was  preaching, 
but  preaching  reconciliation  to  God  through  the  death 
of  his  Son.  The  homely  sermon  took  effect,  and  from 
that  moment  the  gospel  wielded  all  the  powers  of  his 
brilliant  and  active  mind.  Toplady  became  very 
learned,  and  at  thirty-eight  he  died,  more  widely  read 
in  Fathers  and  Eeformers  than  most  academic  digni- 
taries can  boast  when  their  heads  are  hoary.  His 
chief  publications  are  controversial,  and  in  some 
respects  bear  painfully  the  impress  of  his  over-ardent 
spirit.     In  the  pulpit's  milder  urgency  nothing  flowed 


344  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

but  balm.  In  his  tones  there  was  a  commanding 
solemnity,  and  in  his  words  there  was  such  simplicity 
that  to  hear  was  to  understand.  And  both  at  Broad 
Hembury  and  afterwards  in  Orange  Street,  London, 
the  happiest  results  attended  his  ministry.  Many 
sinners  were  converted.  And  the  doctrines  which 
God  blessed  to  the  accomplishment  of  these  results 
may  be  learned  from  the  hymns  which  Toplady  has 
bequeathed  to  the  church: — "When  lajiguor  and 
disease  invade j"  "A  debtor  to  mercy  alone;"  "Rock 
of  ages,  cleft  for  me;"  and  "Deathless  princij^le, 
arise;" — hymns  in  which  it  would  seem  as  if  the 
finished  work  were  embalmed  and  the  lively  hope 
exulting  in  every  stanza,  whilst  each  person  of  the 
glorious  Godhead  radiates  mercy,  grace,  and  holiness 
through  each  successive  line.  During  his  last  illness, 
Augustus  Toplady  seemed  to  lie  in  the  very  vestibule 
of  glory.  To  a  friend's  inquiry  he  answered,  with 
sparkling  eye,  "Oh,  my  dear  sir,  I  cannot  tell  the 
comforts  I  feel  in  my  soul :  they  are  past  expression. 
The  consolations  of  God  are  so  abundant  that  he  leaves 
me  nothing  to  pray  for.  My  prayers  are  all  converted 
into  praise.  I  enjoy  a  heaven  already  in  my  soul." 
And  within  an  hour  of  dying  he  called  his  friends,  and 
asked  if  they  could  give  him  up ;  and  when  they  said 
they  could,  tears  of  joy  ran  down  his  cheeks  as  he 
added,  "Oh,  what  a  blessing  that  you  are  made 
wilUng  to  give  me  over  into  the  hands  of  my  dear 
Eedeemer,  and  part  with  me,  for  no  mortal  can 
live  after  the  glories  which  God  has  manifested  to 
my  soul." 

At  Everton,  in  Bedfordshire,  not  far  from  the  spot 
where   John    Bunyan   had    been    a   ]ireaelier   and    a 


JOHN    BERRIDGE.  345 

prisoner,  lived  and  laboured  a  man  not  unlike  him, 
John  Berridge.  For  long  a  distin- 
guished member  of  Clare  Hall,  Cam-  bom  1716;  died 
bridge,  and  for  many  years  studying 
fifteen  hours  a  day,  be  had  enriched  his  masculine 
rinderstanding  with  all  sorts  of  learning;  and  when  at 
last  he  became  a  parish  minister  he  applied  to  his 
labours  all  the  resources  of  a  mind  eminently  practical, 
and  all  the  vigour  of  a  very  honest  one.  But  his  suc- 
cess was  small, — so  small  that  he  began  to  suspect  his 
mode  was  wrong.  After  prayer  for  light,  it  was  one 
day  borne  in  upon  his  mind,  "Cease  from  thine  own 
works;  only  believe;"  and,  consulting  his  concordance, 
he  was  surprised  to  see  how  many  columns  were 
required  for  the  words  faith  and  believe.  Through 
this  quaint  inlet  he  found  his  way  into  the  knowledge 
of  the  gospel,  and  the  consequent  love  of  the  Saviour; 
and,  though  hampered  with  academic  standing,  and 
past  the  prime  of  life,  he  did  not  hesitate  a  moment 
to  reverse  his  former  preaching,  and  the  efllcacy  of  the 
cross  was  soon  seen  in  his  altered  parish.  His  mind 
was  singular.  Full  of  wit  and  humour,  ho  thought  in 
proverbs  and  spoke  in  parables.  In  the  pith  of  piety, 
love  to  the  Saviour,  he  always  abounded.  "My  jjoor 
feeble  heart  droops  when  I  think,  write,  or  talk  of 
any  thing  but  Jesus.  Oh  that  I  could  get  near  him, 
live  believingly  on  him  !  I  would  walk,  and  talk,  and 
sit,  and  eat,  and  rest,  with  him."  And  it  was  this 
absorbing  affection  which  in  preaching  enhanced  all 
his  powers.  The  bluntest  boor,  as  he  listened  to  the 
homely  colloquy  of  John  Berridge,  was  delighted  at 
his  own  capacity.  But  was  not  that  rather  a  home- 
thrust?  "Yes,  but  it  is  fact;  and,  sure  enough,  the 
man  is  frank  and  honest;"  and  so  the -blow  is  borne 


346  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

with  the  best  smile  that  can  bo  twisted  ont  of  agony. 
*'  Nay,  nay;  he  is  getting  personal,  and  without  some 
purpose  the  bolts  would  not  fly  so  true."  And  just 
when  the  hearer's  suspicion  is  rising,  and  he  begins 
to  think  of  retreating,  barbed  and  burning,  the  arrow 
is  through  him.  His  soul  is  transfixed,  and  his  con- 
science is  all  on  fire.  And  these  shafts  of  living 
Scripture  fly  so  fast  that  in  a  few  minutes  the  congre- 
gation is  all  a  field  of  slain.  Such  was  the  powerful 
and  piercing  sharpness  of  this  great  preacher's  sen- 
tences,— so  suited  to  England's  rustic  auditories,  and 
so  divinely  directed  in  their  flight, — that  eloquence 
has  seldom  won  such  triumphs  as  the  gospel  won  with 
the  bow  of  old  eccentric  Berridge.  Strong  men,  in 
the  surprise  of  sudden  self-discovery,  or  in  the  joy  of 
marvellous  deliverance,  would  sink  to  the  earth 
powerless  or  convulsed;  and  in  one  year  of  "cam- 
paigning," it  is  said  that  four  thousand  have  been 
awakened  to  the  worth  of  their  souls  and  a  sense 
of  sin. 

It  was  the  same  truths  uttered  by  a  spirit  of  similar 
fervour  that  produced  so  great  a  revolution  in  Kidder- 
minster a  century  before.     The  young 

Richd.  Baxter;  ''  ^  ,. 

born  1615:  died  heart  01  itiCHARD  BAXTER  was  first  rcli- 
giously  impressed  by  the  holy  character 
and  serious  conversations  of  his  father.  While  a 
youth  his  impressions  were  deepened  at  Ludlow  Castle 
by  two  circumstances  which  might  have  had  an  oppo- 
site eff'ect, — his  temptation  to  become  a  gambler,  and 
the  religious  apostasy  of  his  most  intimate  friend. 
The  first  game  he  ever  played  in  his  life,  he  played 
with  the  best  gamester  in  the  castle.  It  was  soon 
perceived  that  he  must  inevitably  lose  the  game,  un- 


mCIIARD   BAXTER.  347 

less  lie  obtaiucd  one  particular  cast  of  the  dice  each 
time  in  succession.  The  dice  gave  that  particular 
cast  each  time,  and  he  won  the  game.  His  astonish- 
ing success  induced  him  to  believe  that  the  devil  had 
managed  the  dice  for  the  purpose  of  making  a  game- 
ster of  him.  He  therefore  returned  the  money  he 
had  won,  and  determined  never  to  play  another  game. 
The  apostasy  of  his  young  friend  was  more  dangerous 
to  him  than  the  temptation  to  gambling.  His  friend 
was  a  very  devotional  young  man.  They  were  much 
attached  to  each  other,  and  were  constantly  studying 
together.  He  was  the  first  that  Baxter  had  ever 
heard  pray  extempore,  and  it  was  from  him  that  Bax- 
ter himself  acquired  the  habit.  This  youth  became  a 
reviler  of  all  religion,  and  even  scofled  at  Baxter's 
devotions. 

Soon  after,  young  Baxter  discovered  in  his  father's 
house  an  old  tattered  book  which  a  poor  cottager  had 
lent  him.  Fresh  from  the  scenes  and  recollections  of 
Ludlow  Castle,  he  read  this  book  very  closely,  and  the 
reading  produced  in  his  mind  strong  convictions  of  the 
evil  of  sin.  That  tattered  old  book  was  Bunny's  "  Book 
of  Christian  Exercises  appertaining  to  Eesolution."  Its 
real  author  was  Parsons,  a  famous  English  Jesuit;  but 
it  was  corrected  and  improved  by  Edmund  Bunny,  who 
was  rector  of  Bolton  Percy,  and  who,  after  a  life  of 
apostolic  labours,  died  in  1617. 

"Bunny's  'Eesolution'  deals  much  and  vigorously 
with  conscience,  and  rouses  every  man  to  the  obli- 
gation of  'resolving  ourselves  to  become  Christians 
indeed.'  It  is  probable  that  this  work  gave  to  Bax- 
ter's mind  that  awakening  tone  and  that  eloquent 
energy  which  tell  so  mightily  in  his  '  Call  to  the  Un- 
converted.'   The  Jesuit,  in  composing  this  work,  never 


348  THE   DIVINE    LIFE. 

thought  that  it  would  produce  the  author  of  the 
'  Certainty  of  Christianity  without  Popery.'  Bunny's 
'Eesolution'  was  iiseful  to  Baxter,  however,  only  so 
far  as  it  awakened  his  mind  and  directed  him  to 
caution,  prayer,  and  firmness:  it  neither  led  him  to 
Christ  nor  brought  him  to  the  guidance  and  aid  of 
the  Holy  Spirit,  and  therefore  it  gave  him  no  joy  and 
peace  in  believing.  This  was  reserved  for  another 
and  a  very  different  work :  this  honour  was  for  Dr. 
Sibb's  'Bruised  Eeed.'  This  admirable  little  work 
brought  him  and  his  resolutions  to  the  Saviour,  and 
melted  his  heart  into  devotion.  If  Bunny's  'Eeso- 
lution'  strung  Baxter's  harp,  it  was  Sibb's  'Bruised 
Eeed'  that  tuned  it  to  the  love  of  Christ."  We  have 
in  his  instance  another  illustration  of  the  truth,  that, 
by  whatever  means  the  soul  is  aroused  to  religious 
concern  and  earnestness,  the  turning  of  the  heart  to 
God  in  true  conversion  is  effected  only  by  the  know- 
ledge of  forgiving  mercy  through  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ. 

The  character  of  the  inhabitants  of  Kidderminster 
at  the  period  of  Baxter's  settlement  among  them  was 
extremely  degraded  and  unpromising.  The  whole 
populace  of  the  town  had  become  a  disorderly  mass, 
and  were  violently  hostile  to  real  religion  under  every 
form  and  name,  whether  conformist  or  non-conform- 
ist. The  methods  of  pastoral  labour  which  Baxter 
adopted  he  has  explained  in  his  "  Eeformed  Pastor." 
And  his  success  may  be  told  in  a  very  few  words. 
"  When  I  came  thither  first,"  he  says,  "  there  was 
about  one  family  in  a  street  that  worshipped  God  and 
called  on  his  name;  and  when  I  came  away  there 
were  some  streets  where  there  was  not  more  than  one 
family  in  the  side  of  a  street  that  did  not  do  so."   This 


Baxter's  success.  349 

was  the  case  even  with  the  inns  and  public-houses  of 
the  town.  Sjieaking  of  the  Lord's  day,  he  says,  "  You 
might  hear  a  hundred  families  singing  psahns  and  re- 
peating sermons  as  you  passed  through  the  streets." 
The  number  of  his  regular  communicants  averaged, 
before  he  left,  sixteen  hundred, — "  of  whom,"  he  says, 
"there  were  not  twelve  that  I  had  not  good  hopes 
of  as  to  their  sincerity."  "And  though  I  have  been 
absent  from  them  now  six  years,  and  they  have  been 
assaulted  with  pulpit  calumnies  and  slanders,  with 
threatenings  and  imprisonments,  with  enticing  words 
and  seducing  reasonings,  they  yet  stand  fast  and  keep 
to  their  integrity.  Many  of  them  are  gone  to  God, 
and  some  are  removed,  and  some  are  now  in  prison, 
(for  conscience'  sake,)  and  most  are  still  at  home ;  but 
none  that  I  hear  of  are  fallen  off,  or  forsake  their 
uprightness."  With  deep  humility  and  with  thanks- 
giving to  God  he  contemplated  what  God  had  wrought 
by  him.  "  Oh,  what  am  I,  a  worthless  worm,  not  only 
wanting  academical  honoui*s,  but  much  of  that  furni- 
ture that  is  needful  to  so  high  a  work,  that  God  should 
thus  abundantly  encourage  me  ?" 

There  was  much  in  Baxter's  manner  to  move  his 
hearers.  "  Into  his  pulpit  he  brought  all  the  energies 
and  sympathies  of  his  entire  nature.  Being  deeply 
earnest  himself,  he  wished  his  hearers  to  be  deeply 
earnest."  His  own  immortal  lines  best  explain  the 
simplicity  of  his  style  and  pui-pose  : — 

"I  preach'd,  as  never  sure  to  preach  again, 
And  as  a  dying  man  to  dying  men." 

But  this  earnestness  would  have  been  in  vain  but  that 
it  was  used  to  enforce  the  great  converting  truth,  that 
"  God  so  loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his  only-begot- 


350  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

ten  Son,  that  whosoever  believeth  in  him  should  not 
perish,  but  have  everhisting  life." 

One  other  instance,  and  that  of  more  modern  date, 
we  give  in  illustration  of  our  theme.  It  is  that  of  "  a 
man,"  to  use  the  words  of  Eobert  Hall,  "whose  saga- 
city enabled  him  to  penetrate  to  the  depth  of  every 
subject  he  explored;  whose  conceptions  were  so  power- 
ful and  luminous  that  what  was  recondite  and  origi- 
nal appeared  familiar;  and  who  has  left  monuments 
of  his  piety  and  genius  which  will  survive  to  distant 
posterity." 

Andrew  Fuller  was  born  of  Christian  parents, 
and,  though  freely  indulging  in  youthful  sins  and  fol- 
lies, was  the  subject  of  early  religious 
born  In  Cam-'  imprcssious.  One  day,  he  tells  us,  as  he 
brlfa^y'6,'^\'764'j  was  Walking  alone  he  began  to  think 
died  May  7.  gei-jously  what  would  become  of  his  soul. 
He  felt  himself  the  slave  of  sin.  He 
saw  that  if  God  would  forgive  him  all  the  past,  and 
offer  him  the  kingdom  of  heaven  on  condition  of  giv- 
ing up  his  wicked  pursuits,  he  should  not  accept  it, 
so  conscious  was  he  of  the  power  of  sin  within  him. 
And  he  walked  sorrowfully  along,  repeating  these 
words: — "Iniquity  will  be  my  ruin."  Wliile  in  this 
unhappy  mood,  the  words  of  the  ajjostle  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  his  mind : — "  Sin  shall  not  have  dominion 
over  you:  for  ye  are  not  under  the  law,  but  under 
grace."  He  had  been  taught  to  regard  the  suggestion 
of  a  text  of  Scriptm'e  to  the  mind,  especially  if  it 
came  with  power,  as  a  promise  coming  immediately 
from  God.  He  therefore  understood  this  Scripture  as 
a  revelation  from  God  to  himself,  and  was  instan- 
taneously filled  with  transport.     Tears  of  joy  flowed 


ANDREW  PULLER.  351 

profusely,  till  his  face  was  swelled  with  weeping.  But, 
according  to  his  own  confession,  before  night  all  was 
gone  and  forgotten,  and  he  returned  to  his  former 
vices  "  with  as  eager  a  gust  as  ever."  Twelve  months 
after,  as  he  walked  by  himself,  he  thought  of  his  for- 
mer hopes  and  atfections,  and  how  he  had  forgotten 
them  and  returned  to  all  his  wicked  ways.  Instead 
of  sin  having  no  more  dominion  over  him,  he  perceived 
that  its  dominion  was  increased.  He  was  greatly  de- 
jected, but  these  words  came  into  his  mind: — "I  have 
blotted  out,  as  a  thick  cloud,  thy  transgression,  and, 
as  a  cloud,  thy  sins."  As  before,  he  received  this  as  a 
message  fi*om  God,  and  shed  a  multitude  of  tears,  not 
of  sorrow,  but  of  joy  and  gratitude.  He  now  judged 
that  he  had  been  in  a  backslichng  state,  and  that  God 
had  graciously  restored  himj  "though  in  truth,"  he 
said,  years  after,  "  I  have  every  reason  to  think  that 
the  great  deej)  of  my  heart's  hypocrisy  had  not  yet 
been  broken  up,  and  that  all  my  rehgion  was  mere 
transient  impression,  without  any  abiding  principle. 
Amidst  it  all,  I  had  lived  without  prayer,  and  was 
never,  that  I  recollect,  induced  to  deny  myself  of  one 
sin  when  temptations  were  presented.  I  now,  how- 
ever, thought, — Surely  I  shall  be  better  for  the  time 
to  come.  But,  alas !  in  a  few  days  this  also  was  for- 
gotten, and  I  returned  to  my  evil  courses  with  as 
much  eagerness  as  ever." 

At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  formed  connections  with 
other  wicked  youths,  which  accelerated  his  progress 
in  evil.  "Being  of  an  athletic  frame  and  daring  spirit, 
I  was  often  engaged  (he  says)  in  such  exercises  and 
exploits  as  might  have  issued  in  death,  if  the  good 
hand  of  God  had  not  preserved  me."  But  conviction 
of  sin  returned  to  him,  and  for  a  time  he  was  "  like 


352  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

a  drunkard  who  carouses  in  the  evening,  but  mopes 
about  the  next  day  like  one  half  dead."  His  mental 
anxieties  increased  till  "the  gnawings  of  a  guilty 
conscience  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  hell  within  him." 
"JS^ay/'  he  says,  "I  really  thought  at  the  time  that 
this  was  the  fire  and  brimstone  of  the  bottomless  pit, 
and  that  in  me  it  was  already  kindled."  Perplexity 
and  despair  took  hold  upon  him.  What  to  do  he 
knew  not.  "  To  think  of  amendment,  and  much  more 
to  make  vows  concerning  it  as  heretofore,  were  but  a 
mockery  of  God  and  my  own  soul;  and  to  hope  for 
forgiveness  in  the  course  that  I  was  in  was  the  height 
of  presumption.  ...  I  was  not  then  aware  that  any 
poor  sinner  had  a  warrant  to  believe  in  Christ  for 
the  salvation  of  his  soul,  but  supposed  there  must 
be  some  kind  of  qualification  to  entitle  him  to  do  it ; 
yet  I  was  aware  that  I  had  no  qualifications.  On  a 
review  of  my  resolution  at  that  time,  it  seems  to  re- 
semble that  of  Esther,  who  went  into  the  king's  pre- 
sence 'contrary  to  the  law,'  and  at  the  hazard  of  her 
life.  Like  her,  I  seemed  reduced  to  extremities;  im- 
pelled by  dire  necessity  to  run  all  hazards,  even 
though  I  should  perish  in  the  attempt.  Yet  it  was 
not  altogether  from  a  dread  of  wrath  that  I  fled  to 
this  refuge;  for  I  well  remember  that  I  perceived 
something  attracting  in  the  Saviour.  I  must, — I  will, 
— yes,  I  will  trust  my  soul,  my  sinful  lost  soul,  in  his 
hands.  If  I  perish,  I  perish !  ...  And  as  the  eye 
of  my  mind  was  more  and  more  fixed  on  Christ, 
my  guilt  and  fears  were  gradually  and  insensibly  re- 
moved. I  now  found  rest  for  my  troubled  soul,  and 
I  reckon  that  I  should  have  found  it  sooner,  if  I  had 
not  entertained  the  notion  of  my  having  no  warrant 
to  come  to  Christ  without  some  previous  qualification. 


ANDREW   FULLER.  353 

When  I  thought  of  my  past  life,  I  abhorred 

myself,  and  repented  in  dust  and  ashes;  and  when  of 
the  gospel  way  of  salvation,  I  drank  it  in,  as  cold 
water  is  imbibed  by  a  thirsty  soul.  My  heart  felt  one 
with  Christ,  and  dead  to  every  other  object  around 
me.  I  thought  I  had  found  the  joys  of  the  gospel 
heretofore;  but  now  I  seemed  to  know  that  I  had 
found  them,  and  was  conscious  that  I  had  passed  from 
death  unto  life.  Yet  even  now  my  mind  was  not  so 
engaged  in  reflecting  upon  my  own  feelings,  as  upon 
the  objects  which  occasioned  them." 

"From  this  time,"  Mr.  Fuller  continues,  "my 
former  wicked  courses  were  forsaken.  I  had  no 
manner  of  desire  after  them.  They  lost  their  influence 
upon  me.  To  those  evils,  a  glance  at  which  before 
would  have  instantly  set  my  passions  in  a  flame,  I  now 
felt  no  inclination.  My  soul,  said  I,  with  joy  and 
triumph,  is  as  a  weaned  child.  I  now  know  experi- 
mentally what  it  is  to  be  dead  to  the  world  by  the 
cross  of  Christ,  and  to  feel  an  habitual  determination 

to  devote  my  future  life  to  God By  the  help 

of  God  I  continue  in  his  service  to  this  day,  and  daily 
live  in  hope  of  eternal  life  through  Jesus  Christ  my 
Lord  and  only  Saviour." 

The  peculiar  and  exclusive  importance  of  the  truth 
which  we  thus  find  to  be  the  means  of  conversion  is 
seen  in  the  experience  of  the  death-bed,  as  well  as  in 
the  first  hour  of  the  spiritual  life.  "  Gentlemen,"  said 
Dr.  R.  S.  MacAll  to  the  medical  men  who  stood 
around  his  dying  bed, — "Gentlemen,  I  am  no  fanatic; 
rather  I  have  been  too  much  of  a  speculatist:  and  1 
wish  to  say  this,  which  I  hope  you  will  all  forgive  me 
for  uttering  in  your  presence  : — I  am  a  great  sinner, 

23 


354  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

I  have  been  a  great  sinner ;  but  my  trust  is  in  Jesus 
Christ,  and  what  he  has  done  and  suffered  for  sinners. 
Upon  this,  as  the  foundation  of  my  hope,  I  can  con- 
fidentl}^  rely,  now  that  I  am  sinking  into  eternity." 
When  asked  by  a  brother-minister  if  the  gospel  which 
he  had  preached  to  others  now  occupied  his  thoughts 
and  was  dear  to  his  heart,  he  answered,  with  a  smile, 
"Yes, — ITS  VERY  core;  I  cannot  now  trouble  myself 
with  its  envelopments." 

Christianity  has  been  happily  designated  "a  vast 
medical  establishment  for  diseased  minds."  And  the 
functions  of  those  who  teach  its  truth, — "what  are 
they  but  the  solemn  and  public  tender  of  divinely- 
authorized  remedies  to  the  assembled  patients  in  each 
ward  of  that  mighty  hospital,  the  sin-afflicted  world  ? 
The  physicians  may  vary  in  skill  or  activity,  the 
sufferers  in  the  virulence  of  the  evil ;  but  the  relation 
between  them  remains  substantially  unchanged.  ]S[or 
does  it  affect  the  truth  of  the  representation  that,  in 
a  vast  majority  of  instances,  the  sick  are  unsuspicious 
of  their  sickness,  any  more  than  the  confidence  of  the 
insane  would  be  accepted  as  evidence  of  sanity.  The 
ignorance  is  a  part  of  the  disease,  and  the  first  step  to 
health  is  to  know  how  far  we  are  from  it." 

The  remedy  which  the  gospel  provides  will  be 
understood  only  in  the  light  of  the  relation  in  which 
sinful  man  stands  to  God.  God  is  a  ruler ;  man  is  a 
transgressor.  These  simple  statements  are  pregnant 
with  awful  meaning.  They  describe  the  relation  which 
now  unhappily  subsists  between  the  Creator  and  his 
creature,  the  Father  and  his  child.  Whether  the 
transgressor  may  ever  escape  the  penal  consequences 
of  his  transgression  must  depend  entirely  on  the  will 


JUSTIFICATION   BY   FAITH.  355 

and  grace  of  the  Euler;  and,  if  he  may,  how  he  shall 
escape  must  depend  on  the  will  and  wisdom  of  the 
Euler.  That  he  may,  and  how  he  may,  have  both 
been  revealed.  The  redemption  of  man  is  not  an  im- 
mediate act  of  sovereign  prerogative ;  it  is  the  result 
of  a  process  originating  in  love,  but  wisely  involving 
mediation,  and  the  death  of  the  Mediator.  In  the 
death  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  blood  of  a  sinless  man,  on 
whom  the  divine  law  had  no  claim  and  could  have 
none,  was  poured  out  as  a  vicarious  offering.  <'  First 
in  systematic  order  as  well  as  in  magnitude,"  says  Mr. 
Isaac  Taylor,  "is  the  doctrine  of  the  Propitiation 
effected  by  the  Son  of  God, — so  held  clear  of  admix- 
tures and  evasions,  as  to  sustain,  in  its  bright  integrity, 
the  consequent  doctrine  of  the  full  and  absolute 

RESTORATION   OP   GUILTY  MAN  TO  THE  FAVOUR    OP    GoD, 

on  his  acceptance  of  this  method  of  mercy;  or,  as  it  is 
technically  phrased,  justification  through  faith. 
A  doctrine,  this,  which  in  a  peculiar  manner  refuses 
to  be  tampered  with  or  compi-omised,  and  which  will 
hold  its  own  place  or  none.  It  challenges  for  itself, 
not  only  a  broad  basis  on  which  it  may  rest  alone, 
but  a  broad  border,  upon  which  nothing  that  is  human 

may  trespass 

"  In  the  justification  of  man  through  the  mediation 
of  Christ,  man  individually  as  guilty,  and  his  divine 
sponsor,  personally  competent  to  take  upon  himself  such 
a  part,  stand  forward  in  the  court  of  heaven,  there  to 
be  severally  dealt  with  as  the  honour  of  law  shall 
demand ;  and  if  the  representative  of  the  guilty  be 
indeed  thus  qualified  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  and  if  the 
guilty  on  his  part  freely  accept  this  mode  of  satisfac- 
tion, then,  when  the  one  recedes  from  the  position 
of  danger  and  the  other  steps  into  it,  justice,  having 


356  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

already  admitted  both  the  competency  of  the  sub- 
stitute and  the  sufficiency  of  the  substitution,  is  itself 
silent. 

"  Such  a  transaction  does  indeed  originate  in  grace 
or  favour;  but  yet,  if  it  satisfy  law,  it  can  be  open  to 
no  species  of  after-interference.  Now,  in  the  method 
of  justification  through  faith,  God  himself  solemnly 
proclaims  that  the  rectitude  of  his  government  is  not 
violated,  nor  the  sanctity  of  his  law  compromised.  It 
is  he  who  declares  that,  in  this  method,  he  may  be 
just  while  justifying  the  ungodly.  After  such  a  pro- 
clamation from  heaven  has  been  made,  'AVho  is  he  that 
condemneth?     It  is  God  that  justifieth.' 

"A  sacred  doctrine  this!  most  honoured,  assuredly, 
when  admitted  with  a  simple-hearted  and  joyful  grati- 
tude !  If  it  be  asked, '  Is  it  a  truth  ?'  in  reply,  besides 
citing  the  apostolic  authorities,  which  are  most  explicit, 
we  might  well  ask  whence  such  a  doctrine  might  pro- 
ceed, if  not  from  God.  Which  of  the  creations  of  the 
human  mind  does  it  resemble  ?  Whether  we  regard 
that  aspect  of  it  which  is  thoroughly  intelligible,  or 
that  in  which  it  presents  an  inscrutable  mystery,  it 
stands  equally  remote  from  the  customary  style  of 
human  speculations;  besides  that  it  contravenes  the 
pride  and  prejudices  of  the  heart.  Clear  and  bright 
as  noon  is  this  truth, — vast  and  deep  as  infinity." 

The  moral  influence  of  this  truth  on  the  hearts  of 
men  is,  as  our  facts  and  histories  show,  not  only  salu- 
tary but  converting.  To  use  the  words  of  Dr.  DufiT, 
the  doctrine  of  the  cross,  brought  home  to  the  heart 
and  conscience,  is  "the  only  antecedent  to  the  conver- 
sion of  a  soul  towards  God."  The  character  of  God  is 
exhibited  in  the  mediation  and  sacrifice  of  Christ  as 
all-glorious,  both  in  its  purity  and  in  its  love.     But 


RECONCILIATION.  357 

this  alone  would  not  account  for  the  peculiar  effects 
which  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus  produces.  The  words 
of  an  ancient  psalm  touch  the  very  philosophy  of  the 
connection  between  the  belief  of  that  truth,  and  the 
spirit  of  loving  obedience  to  God  which  follows  it: — 
"  There  is  forgiveness  with  thee,  that  thou  mayest  be 
feared."  The  heart  of  the  sinner  is  estranged  from 
God,  and  this  estrangement  is  confirmed  and  strength- 
ened by  the  dread  of  God's  righteous  displeasure. 
While  haunted  by  a  sense  of  unpardoned  sin,  there  can 
be  no  free,  or  willing,  or  ingenuous  obedience.  "  There 
might  be,"  says  Dr.  Chalmers,  "a  sei-vice  of  drudgery, 
but  not  a  service  of  delight;  such  obedience  as  is  ex- 
torted from  a  slave  by  the  whip  of  his  overseer,  but 
not  a  free-will  offering  of  love  or  of  loyalty.  It  makes 
all  the  difference  between  a  slavish  and  a  spontaneous 

obedience And  yet  how  shall  this  translation 

be  effected  from  the  spirit  of  bondage  to  that  of 
liberty?  How  shall  we  get  quit  of  that  overwhelming 
terror,  wherewith  it  is  impossible  that  either  affection 
or  confidence  can  dwell, — and  which,  so  long  therefore 
as  it  subsists,  must  cause  the  religion  of  a  man  upon 
earth  to  be  wholly  dissimilar  from  that  of  an  angel  in 
heaven  ?  For  this  purpose,  and  to  appease  the  terror 
of  our  own  spirits,  shall  we  shut  our  eyes  to  what  is 
really  terrible  in  the  character  of  God  ?  Shall  we  view 
him  otherwise  than  as  a  God  of  holiness  ?  Shall  we 
dismantle  his  character  of  its  justice,  and  righteous- 
ness, and  truth  ?  Shall  we  conceive  of  him  as  descend- 
ing to  a  compromise  with  sin,  and  as  relenting  in  aught 
from  his  hatred  and  hostility  against  it?  To  soften 
the  Divinity  into  an  object  of  our  possible  tenderness 
and  truth,  shall  we  strip  him  of  all  his  moral  attributes 
but  one, — and,  in  the  midst  of  this  wild  and  wasteful 


358  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

anarchy,  shall  mercy  abide  as  the  only  surviving  per- 
fection of  that  God  whom  we  deemed  to  be  unchange- 
able ?  Oh,  we  feel  that  the  constitution  of  the  Godhead 
cannot  be  so  tampered  with;  and  that  the  principles 
of  his  everlasting  government  can  never  be  set  aside, 
nor  make  way  to  suit  the  wishes  or  the  convenience 
of  sinful  man.  And  the  question  remains.  How  shall 
man  ever  be  divested  of  that  terror  which  is  inspired 
by  the  thought  of  an  angry  God,  and  which  at  the 
same  time  is  increased  by  the  consciousness  of  impo- 
tency  in  all  the  efforts  of  nature  to  love  God,  or  to  im- 
pregnate with  a  right  spirit  any  part  of  the  obedience 
which  it  renders  to  him  ? 

"  It  is  reserved  for  the  gospel  of  Jesus  Christ  to  do 
away  this  terror  from  the  heart  of  man,  and  yet  to 
leave  untarnished  the  holiness  of  God.  It  is  the 
atonement  that  was  made  by  Christ  which  solves  this 
mystery,  providing  at  once  for  the  deliverance  of  the 

sinner  and  for  the  dignity  of  the  Sovereign 

This  is  that  great  transaction  by  which  the  broken 
fellowship  of  earth  and  heaven  is  readjusted;  and 
through  this,  as  a  free  and  open  communication,  can 
God  rejoice  as  before  in  all  kindness  over  man,  and 
man  again  place  his  rejoicing  confidence  in  God.  On 
doing  this,  he  is  disburdened  from  the  terror  that  had 
enslaved  him,  and  that  had  given  the  spirit  of  a 
crouching  pusillanimity  to  all  his  obedience.  He  from 
this  moment  enters  into  liberty.  He  is  no  longer 
haunted  by  degrading  apprehensions  about  self  and 
safety.  He  sees  God  to  be  at  peace  with  him,  but  in 
such  a  way  as  to  enhance  the  sacredness  of  his  now 
vindicated  character;  and  in  the  very  act  of  receiving 
his  forgiveness  through  the  hand  of  a  Mediator, 
man  beholds,  throughout  the  whole  of  the  august  cere- 


PEACE    WITH    GOD.  359 

monial,  the  heightened  lustre  that  is  thrown  over  the 
truth  and  the  justice  and  the  majesty  of  the  Godhead. 
But  while  this  view  of  God  in  Christ  extinguishes  one 
fear, — the  fear  of  terror, — it  awakens  another  and 
an  altogether  distinct  fear, — the  fear  of  reverence." 
And  with  a  "heart  enlarged,"  the  pardoned  man 
<'can  run  in  the  way  of  God's  commandments." 
"  The  doctrine  of  faith  alone,"  says  Professor  Butler, 
"  laying  deep  its  foundations  in  self-abasement,  bestows 
a  blessed  confidence,  without  which  the  Christian  may 
be  the  inconsolable  penitent,  the  mortified  ascetic,  the 
prostrate  trembler  before  an  offended  God;  but  with- 
out which  he  is,  nevertheless,  but  half  a  Christian." 


CONCLUSION. 

Our  facts  are  now  before  the  reader.  We  have 
already  ''asked  questions"  of  them,  to  use  the  signifi- 
cant language  of  Lord  Bacon,  and  we  have  received  no 
dubious  answers.  The  painful  truth  that  man  is 
morally  estranged  from  his  Maker  was  elicited  from 
the  first  "instances"  which  we  adduced,  and  has  been 
confirmed  by  all  that  have  followed.  "As  the  greatest 
and  highest  of  all  blessings,  God  made  him,  who  was 
to  be  lord  over  all  the  rest  of  the  creation,  in  his  own 
image.  This  was  the  greatest  blessing  which  God 
could  bestow  on  any  creature,  his  own  image,  a 
shadow  of  his  own  eternal  power  and  truth,  a  shadow, 
and  likeness,  and  capacity  of  his  own  holiness  and 
love;  and  this  he  bestOAved  upon  man.  But  this,  the 
greatest  of  all  blessings  which  it  can  enter  into  man's 
heart  to  conceive,  man  wilfully  cast  away.     He  would 

not  have  it He  bowed  his  neck  to  the  yoke." 

"  It  is  this  that  marks,  even  in  noble  spirits,  the  pro- 
found and  general  depravity  of  the  human  race. 
This  is  the  seal  of  our  reprobation,  that  we  have 
forgotten  why  and  for  what  we  were  sent  into  the 
woi-ld.  All  evil  comes  from  this;  and  each  particular 
sin  disappears  in  this  great  and  primal  sin."* 

But,  although  no  truth  rests  on  a  wider  or  more 


ALL   CONCLUDED    UNDER   SIN.  361 

solid  basis  of  facts  than  this,  there  is  none  which  men 
are  more  unwilling  to  admit.  "  Even  now,  with  all  the 
light  of  the  Scriptures  shining  around  us,  with  the  law 
of  God  ever  sounding  in  our  ears,  and  the  life  of  Christ 
set  continually  before  us,  how  prone  are  we  to  forget 
our  sinfulness,  to  turn  away  from  the  thought  of  it, 
to  fancy  that  we  are  as  good  as  we  need  be,  and  that 
though  we  might  certainly  be  better,  yet  it  does  not 
matter  much !  How  apt  are  we  still  to  forget  that  we 
are  '  concluded  under  sin' !  To  forget  that  we  are 
shut  up  in  it  as  in  a  prison  !  How  readily  do  we  still 
let  ourselves  be  dazzled  by  the  gilded  glaring  walls 
and  the  gaudy  flaring  flowers!  ....  Although  the 
souls  of  so  many  millions  are  lying  around  us,  bloated 
with  the  poison  of  sin,  how  tardily  do  we  acknowledge 
that  the  poison  by  which  they  perished  must  also  be 
deadly  to  us !  ...  .  This  is  the  craft  and  subtlety  of 
the  evil  one,  that  he  makes  us  fancy  we  are  free,  when 
we  are  in  prison ;  he  makes  us  fancy  we  are  at  liberty, 
when  we  are  in  bondage;  he  makes  us  fancy  we  are  our 
own  masters,  when  we  are  his  slaves;  he  blinds  and 
cheats  and  stupefies  us,  until  we  deem  we  are  doing  our 
own  will  and  pursuing  our  own  pleasure,  when  in  fact 
we  are  drudging  in  his  toils  and  rushing  into  the  jaws 
of  destruction  before  his  lashing  scourge.  Therefore,  in 
order  that  our  eyes  might  be  open  to  the  misery  of 
our  condition,  that  we  might  see  our  danger  before  it 
was  too  late,  God  was  mercifully  pleased  to  give  us 
his  Scriptures,  wherein  he  declares,  in  the  ears  of  all 
mankind,  that  one  and  all  are  concluded  under  sin; 
that,  however  its  ajipearance  may  deceive  us,  sin  is  not 
a  palace  but  a  prison,  that  in  that  prison  we  are  all 
shut  up,  and  that  no  earthly  power  can  deliver  us 
from  it." 


362  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

The  facts  of  the  inner  world  which  this  book  relates, 
and  which  are  as  real  as  those  of  the  outer  world,  are 
perpetual  witnesses  of  the  power  and  presence  of  God 
in  the  government  of  mankind.  In  "questioning" 
them  we  have  ascertained  the  means  by  which  those 
that  are  "without  God"  may  be  reconciled  to  him, 
restored  to  fellowship  with  him,  and  brought  into  a 
state  of  loving,  childlike  obedience  to  his  authority. 
And  in  these  means  we  discover  no  light  argument 
for  the  divinity  of  the  Christian  faith, — the  divinity 
especially  of  those  truths  which  are  "mighty"  to  the 
conversion  of  men's  hearts  to  God.  The  argument 
which  Joseph  John  Gm-ney  addressed  to  the  mechanics 
of  Manchester  on  the  correspondence  of  Old  Testa- 
ment prophecy  and  New  Testament  history  is  equally 
applicable  to  our  theme.  "When  a  lock  and  key  (he 
said)  are  well  fitted,  a  fair  presumption  arises,  even 
though  they  be  of  a  simple  character,  that  they  were 
made  for  each  other.  If  they  are  complex  in  their 
form,  that  presumption  is  considerably  strengthened. 
But  if  the  lock  is  composed  of  such  strange  and 
curious  parts  as  to  baffle  the  skill  even  of  a  Manchester 
mechanic, — if  it  is  absolutely  novel  and  peculiar,  differ- 
ing from  every  thing  that  was  ever  before  seen  in  the 
world, — if  no  key  in  the  universe  will  enter  it  except 
one,  and  by  that  one  it  is  so  easily  and  exactly  fitted 
that  a  child  may  open  it, — then  indeed  are  we  absolutely 
certain  that  the  lock  and  the  key  were  made  by  the 
same  master-hand,  and  truly  belong  to  each  other. 
No  less  curiously  diversified,  no  less  hidden  from  the 
wisdom  of  man,  no  less  novel  and  peculiar,  are  the 
prophecies  contained  in  the  Old  Testament  respecting 
Jesus  Christ.  No  less  easy,  no  less  exact,  is  the 
manner  in  which  they  are  fitted  by  the  gospel  history. 


THE   PRINCIPAL   TRUTH.  363 

Who  then  can  doubt  that  God  was  the  author  of  these 
j)vedictions,  of  the  events  by  which  they  were  ful- 
filled, and  of  the  religion  with  which  they  are  both 
inseparably  connected?" 

The  gospel  of  Jesus  Christ  is  the  only  key  that 
opens  the  lock  of  the  human  heart.  The  adaptation 
of  the  one  to  the  other  is  attested  by  its  efficiency  in 
instances  happily  too  numerous  to  be  told.  In  what- 
ever other  respects  the  hearts  of  men  are  dissimilar, 
thej'  have  been  found  alike  in  this, — that  they  have 
been  opened  by  the  gospel  of  Christ  to  receive 
divine  principles  and  affections  which  have  made 
them  the  home  of  a  holy  happiness.  And  in  this  lies 
evidence  that  the  gospel  is  of  God.  "That  is  the 
best  key,"  says  Eichard  Baxter,  "that  will  open  the 
lock,  which  none  but  that  of  God's  appointing  will 
do." 

The  historic  evidence  of  Christianity  can  never  be 
relinquished  or  treated  as  of  little  importance.  But 
it  will  meet  the  wants  of  these  times  only  as  it  is 
associated  with  the  gospel  itself  "  It  is  my  steadfast 
conviction,"  says  the  author  of  "  The  Eestoration  of 
Belief,"  "that  Christianity  will  not  henceforth  main- 
tain its  ground,  as  related  to  the  present  intellectual 
condition  of  instructed  communities,  so  long  as  Chris- 
tian apologists  (so-called)  take  up  a  position  upon  the 
outworks,  or  spend  their  efforts  upon  the  well-meant 
but  fruitless  endeavour  to  put  forward  the  'historic 
evidences'  apart  from  the  principal  truth,  which 
forms  the  substance  of  the  gospel.  So  long  as  this 
principal  trvith  does  not  occupy  its  due  position  in  the 
mind  and  faith  of  the  writer,  and  so  long  as  it  is  not 
boldly  presented  to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  there  is  a 
consciousness  on  both  sides  of  an  interior  incoherence 


364  THE    DIVINE   LIFE. 

in  the  system  itself;  there  is  a  painful  and  pei-jilexing 
feeling  of  incongruity,  which  sets  these  evidences 
jarring,  as  well  in  a  logical  as  in  a  moral  sense,  one 

against  another For  my  own  part,  I  could  not 

attempt,  and  in  fact  should  fail  to  have  any  motive 
sufficiently  impulsive  for  attempting,  to  set  forth  the 
Christian  evidences  on  any  other  ground  than  that  of  an 
amply-expressed  and  unexceptive  orthodoxy."  The 
Godhead  and  atoning  sacrifice  of  Jesus  Christ  consti- 
tuting the  substance  and  soul  of  Christianity,  "Let 
it  be  argued,"  this  able  writer  says,  and  says  with  a 
boldness  which  the  Scripture  testimony  warrants,  and 
which  is  svistained  by  innumerable  facts  like  those 
that  are  contained  in  this  volume,  —  "Let  it  be 
argued  ....  that  the  Christian  doctrine  of  Propi- 
tiation for  sin  (stated  without  reserve)  ....  is  every 
thing  that  ought  to  be  reprobated,  and  to  be  met  with 
an  indignant  rejection;  let  all  such  things  be  said, — 
and  they  will  be  said  to  the  world's  end; — it  will  to 
the  world's  end  also  be  true  that  each  human  spirit, 
when  awakened  towards  God  as  to  his  moral  attri- 
butes, finds  rest  in  that  same  doctrine  of  the  vicarious 
sufferings  of  the  Divine  Person,  and  finds  no  rest 
until  it  is  tliere  found." 

If  we  "question"  our  facts  again,  and  interpret 
their  answer  correctly,  we  shall  understand  better 
than  by  definitions  the  true  nature  of  the  divine  life 
which  follows  the  conversion  of  the  heart  to  God. 
Conversion  does  not  impart  new  mental  powers  to 
men.  It  may  stimulate  those  which  they  possess 
naturally,  quicken  them  into  activity,  increase  their 
strength,  and  enlarge  their  sphere  of  exercise  hj  the 
new  motives  with  which  it  inspires  the  heart,  and 


CONVERSION.  365 

the  new  tastes  which  it  imparts  to  the  soul;  but  it 
neither  changes  their  essential  character  nor  adds  to 
their  number.  The  memory,  imagination,  and  judg- 
ment of  the  unconverted  man  go  with  him  into  the 
new  spiritual  world  into  which  conversion  introduces 
him.  And  all  that  constitutes  his  intellectual  idiosyn- 
crasy and  individuality  smwives  the  moral  transforma- 
tion by  which  he  has  become  a  Christian.  There  are 
"the  same  faculties,  but  not  the  same  uses;  even  as  the 
breathing  organs  of  a  human  body  are  still  substan- 
tially the  same,  when  at  one  hoiu-  inhaling  pestilence 
and  ruin,  at  another  drawing  the  pure  and  reviving 
air  of  morning  in  the  open  landscape,  and  with  all  the 
happy  consciousness  of  life,  and  health,  and  vigour." 

This  is  true  likewise  of  all  a  man's  natural  suscepti- 
bilities of  affections.  Hope  and  fear,  love  and  hatred, 
are  not  uprooted  or  destroyed:  they  only  find  new 
objects.  The  "old  machinery  of  humanity"  is  not 
discarded  by  the  gospel ;  there  is  not  provided  for  us 
a  "new  organization  of  passions  and  affections."  It 
is  an  error  to  suppose  "  that  in  the  work  of  renewal 
new  faculties  are  given  to  us,  instead  of  a  new  direc- 
tion to  the  old  ones;  that  God  annihilates  human 
nature  when  he  only  perfects  it ;  and  that  the  proper 
office  of  the  Holy  Spirit  is  to  evacuate  our  former 
being,  instead  of  taking  it  as  the  basis  of  his  mighty 
work ;  to  destroy  the  channels  themselves,  instead  of 
cleansing  their  polluted  streams  and  then  replenish- 
ing them  forever  with  the  waters  of  paradise."*  The 
change  is  purely  moral.  The  heart's  love  is  set  on 
worthier  objects,  the  soul's  desires  are  set  on  worthier 
ends,  the  whole  man  finds  his  rest  in  God.     And  thus, 


Butler's  Sermon,  "  Huiuan  Affections  raised,  not  de.stroyed,  by  the 
Gospel." 


366  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

out  of  tlie  common  materials  of  intellect  and  affection, 
there  is  framed  a  "  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost"  for  time 
and  eternity. 

On  the  other  hand,  this  divine  life  is  something  dis- 
tinctively new,  and  not  something  whose  germ  was 
ahvays  in  the  heart  and  needed  only  the  sunshine  of 
favourable  circumstances  to  make  it  germinate  into 
visible  existence.  The  oak  exists  in  the  acorn,  and 
a  suitable  soil  and  time  will  make  it  grow.  It  often 
happens  that  mental  powers,  whose  existence  is  un- 
suspected, lie  dormant  till  culture  or  circumstances 
wake  them  from  their  slumber.  But  it  cannot  be  said 
of  the  divine  life  that  it  lies  concealed  beneath  the  crust 
of  worldliness,  that  its  germ  is  in  every  bosom,  and 
that  fitting  time  and  opportunity  alone  are  required 
to  call  it  into  visible  and  practical  exercise.  Thei;e  is 
no  seed  of  love  to  God  in  the  unregenerate  heart.  It 
is  not  a  moral  slumber  or  stupor  that  has  overtaken 
it,  but  a  moral  death. 

The  terms  ''flesh"  and  ''spirit"  are  not,  as  some 
think,  equivalent  to  passion  and  conscience,  between 
which  there  is  ofttimes  a  conflict,  even  in  the  uncon- 
verted heart.  "  That  which  is  born  of  the  flesh  is 
flesh,  and  that  which  is  born  of  the  Spirit  is  spirit." 
The  "flesh,"  as  used  in  these  words  of  the  infallible 
Teacher,  consists  in  the  moral  nature  of  man  as  born 
of  man ;  the  spirit,  the  moral  nature  of  man  as  "  born 
again"  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  In  the  former,  if  Paul 
may  be  regarded  as  a  true  type  of  the  species,  "there 
dwelleth  no  good  thing."  To  use  the  words  of  Dr. 
John  Brown,  in  his  Commentary  on  Galatians  v.  17, 
"  The  'flesh,'  here,  is  just  a  general  term  for  that  mode 
of  thinking  and  feeling  which  is  natural  to  man  in  his 
present  depraved  state,  and  which,  although  modified 


FLESn   AND    SPIRIT.  367 

by  an  infinite  variety  of  circumstances  in  individuals, 
is  in  its  grand  substantial  character  the  same,  common 
to  the  species;  and  the  'spirit,'  as  opposed  to  it,  is  just 
a  general  name  for  that  mode  of  thinking  and  feeling 
which  is  produced  in  the  mind  by  the  agency  of  the 
Holy  Spirit,  through  the  instrumentality  of  Christian 
truth,  which,  differing  in  degree,  is  substantially  the 
same  in  all  true  Christians.  '  The  flesh'  is  a  phrase  of 
equivalent  meaning  with  '  the  old  man,'  and  '  the  spirit' 
with  'the  new  man.'  These  two  modes  of  thinking 
and  feeling  are  here,  as  in  many  other  parts  of  the 
apostle's  writings,  personified  and  spoken  of  as  if  they 
were  living  beings." 

The  lusting  of  the  flesh  against  the  spirit,  and  of  the 
spirit  against  the  flesh,  is  one  of  those  subjects  which, 
as  Dr.  Brown  says,  are  best  illustrated  by  examples. 
Take  one: — "Under  the  influence  of  that  mode  of 
thinking  and  feeling  which  the  faith  of  the  gospel  and 
the  operation  of  the  Holy  Ghost  produce,  the  Christian 
earnestly  wishes  to  acquiesce  in  the  most  severely- 
afflictive  dispensations  of  Divine  Providence, — to  have 
no  will  but  the  will  of  God ;  but,  under  the  influence 
of  that  impatience  of  suffering,  and  that  opposition 
to  the  divine  will,  which  are  natural  to  man,  he  finds 
such  acquiescence  no  easy  attainment,  and  feels  in  ex- 
treme hazard  of  becoming  fretful  or  sullen.  This  is 
'the  flesh  lusting  against  the  spirit.'  On  the  other 
hand,  when  a  Christian  meets  with  unmerited  ill-treat- 
ment fi"om  his  fellow-men,  he  is  very  apt,  under  the 
influence  of  his  natural  mode  of  thinking  and  feeling, 
to  cherish  resentment  and  seek  revenge ;  but  his  new 
mode  of  thinking  and  feeling  opposes  this,  and,  remem- 
bering how  God  for  Christ's  sake  forgave  him  all  his 
trespasses,  he  is  made,  in  opposition  to  the  lustings 


368  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

of  nature,  to  forgive  his  brother  his  trespasses.     This 
is  'the  spirit  lusting  against  the  flesh.'  " 

In  conversion  there  is,  then,  not  the  awakening  of 
principles  that  were  dormant,  but  the  communication 
of  principles  which  did  not  exist, — the  principles  of  a 
grateful  and  loving  obedience  to  the  Father  that  is  in 
heaven.  The  changed  man  is  a  "  new  creature."  Of 
the  divine  moral  image,  "  righteousness  and  true  holi- 
ness," no  part  had  survived  the  fall.  And  its  recrea- 
tion is  of  God  himself 

This  last  sentiment,  the  agency  of  God  in  conver- 
Bion  and  in  the  production  of  the  divine  life,  rests  on 
the  authority  of  Holy  Scripture ;  and  it  is  strongly 
corroborated  by  our  facts,  in  which  we  find,  to  use 
the  words  of  Neander,  "  the  standing  miracle  of  the 
church,"  that  which  was  to  be  wrought  among  all 
men  and  in  all  time.  "  Let  us  pause  for  one  moment," 
says  the  biographer  of  Dr.  Hope,  in  relating  the  hum- 
ble and  happy  experience  of  this  distinguished  phy- 
sician in  the  prospect  of  an  early  grave, — "Let  us 
pause  for  one  moment  to  consider  this  remarkable 
change  and  inquire  into  its  causes.  Can  this  be  the 
same  individual  who,  filled  from  the  earliest  childhood 
with  bright  visions  of  earthly  honour,  wealth,  and  dis- 
tinction, so  perseveringly  struggled  for  their  attain- 
ment, and  for  nearly  thirty  years  sacrificed  every 
personal  consideration  to  gain  those  very  treasures 
which  he  now  prizes  so  lightly  ?  Strange,  incredi  bio 
as  it  may  seem,  it  is  indeed  he.  Whence,  then,  this 
change  ?  Has  the  world  frowned  on  him,  and  has  he 
learned,  by  hard  necessity,  to  despise  the  smiles  of 
fortune  ?  No ;  the  world  before  him  is  brighter  and 
more  inviting  than  it  ever  was  before.     Is  it  the  mad- 


THE   HOLT   SPIRIT.  3(59 

ness  of  enthusiasm,  or  the  sickly  dream  of  an  exhausted 
brain?  No;  for  his  intellect  is  clear,  his  judgment  cool, 
and  his  present  feelings,  far  from  being  the  growth  of 
temporary  weakness,  date  their  commencement  from 
the  time  when  health  was  unimpaired.  The  Christian 
alone  can  discover  the  cause  in  the  Book  of  God.  He 
will  there  find  that,  through  the  divine  agency,  man 
becomes  a  new  creature;  old  things  pass  away,  and  all 
things  become  new.  To  the  transforming  influence  of 
the  Holy  Spirit  alone  can  we  ascribe  a  change  of  sen- 
timent and  feeling  which  human  motives  would  have 
been  too  weak  to  have  effected.  The  infidel  philoso- 
pher may  nerve  himself  to  regard  with  stoic  indiffe- 
rence the  approach  of  death ;  he  may  reason  himself 
into  a  belief  of  the  worthlessness  of  those  joys  which 
he  had  found  insufiicient  for  his  happiness ;  but  he  can- 
not, like  our  Christian  philosopher,  enter  into  the  feel- 
ings and  appreciate  the  blessings  of  this  world,  and 
yet  resign  them  joyfully,  because  there  are  within  his 
grasp  richer  treasures,  sui'passing  honours,  purer  joys, 
which  shall  never  fade,  never  cloy,  but  endure  forever 
and  ever.  This  higher  excellence  is  reserved  for  him 
who,  justified  by  faith  in  Christ,  and  sanctified  by  the 
Spirit,  has  fought  a  good  fight,  has  finished  his  course, 
and  knows  that  henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for  him  a 
crown,  which  the  Lord  shall  give  at  his  appearing." 

In  reference,  then,  to  this  "standing  miracle"  of 
Christianity,  let  us  ever  (to  use  the  language  of  Pro- 
fessor Butler)  "  maintain  for  the  Spirit  of  truth — and 
more  than  ever  in  these  days,  in  which  we  are  wont 
to  hear  the  gravest  truths  of  revelation  questioned,  or 
diluted,  or  overlooked — his  own  unparticipated  right 
to  illuminate  man;  not  indeed  by  making  man  no 
longer  man,  but  by  feeding  the  affections  with  holy 


370  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 

food,  by  inviting  them  to  holy  objects.  In  this  work 
he  is  alone.  'It  is  the  Spirit  that  quickeneth.'  The 
old  and  the  new  creation  are  alike  exclusively  divine. 
The  revelation  of  God  itself,  as  delivered  in  books, 
dares  not  dispute  this  honour  with  the  everlasting 
Spirit.  That  revelation  is  written  in  a  language  fa- 
miliar to  our  daily  thoughts  and  converse;  it  speaks 
of  life,  and  death,  and  faith,  and  hope,  and  love, — all 
household  words,  which,  in  their  earthly  acceptation, 
every  man  can  speak  of  and  define;  but  to  pass  from 
the  earthly  term  to  the  heavenly  purport,  from  the 
natural  object  to  the  supernatural,  from  the  life  of  the 
flesh  to  the  life  of  the  spirit,  from  the  faith  which 
trusts  in  the  brother-man  to  the  faith  which  trusts  in 
the  '  First-born  among  many  brethren,'  from  the  love 
and  hope  that  are  entangled  among  creatures  of  clay 
to  the  love  and  hope  that  are  busy  among  the  immor- 
tal realities  of  heaven, — this  is  an  art  which  the  Spirit 
that  inspired  the  Scriptures  alone  can  teach  to  the  man 
who  reads  them." 


If  these  conclusions  are  according  to  truth,  they 
may  not  be  laid  aside  or  forgotten,  like  those  of  mate- 
rial science,  while  we  attend  to  things  of  more  imme- 
diate importance.  "  The  eternal  Euler  of  the  universe 
declares  himself  a  party  in  a  controversy  in  which 
each  individual  of  the  human  race  separately  sustains 
the  opposite  position.  No  liberty  is  granted  to  us 
to  recede  from  the  high  but  ominous  dignity  of  thus 
waging  battle  with  the  Almighty;  and  if  in  no  other 
manner,  yet  by  acts  of  wilful  rebellion  have  we  singly 
accepted  the  distinction,  and  stand  pledged  to  the 
consequences."     Has  the  reader  awakened  to  see  this 


DYING  LADY.  371 

to  be  his  condition  in  relation  to  God?  Has  he 
returned  to  his  heavenly  Father  through  the  one 
Mediator?  or  does  he  flatter  himself  that  a  more  con- 
venient season  will  come?  If  he  does,  let  him  ponder 
the  following  tale  of  mournful  truth.* 

An  accomplished  and  amiable  young  woman-  had 
been  deeply  affected  by  a  sense  of  her  spiritual  danger. 
She  was  the  only  child  of  a  fond  and  affectionate 
parent.  The  deep  depression  which  accompanied  her 
discovery  of  guilt  and  depravity  awakened  all  the 
jealousies  of  the  father.  He  dreaded  the  loss  of  that 
sprightliness  and  vivacity  which  constituted  the  life 
of  his  domestic  circle.  He  was  startled  by  the  an- 
swers which  his  questions  elicited;  while  he  foresaw, 
or  thought  he  foresaw,  an  encroachment  on  the 
hitherto  unbroken  tranquillity  of  a  deceived  heart. 
Efforts  were  made  to  remove  the  cause  of  disquietude ; 
but  they  were  such  efforts  as  unsanctified  wisdom 
directed.  The  Bible,  at  last, — oh,  how  little  may  a 
parent  know  the  far-reaching  of  the  deed  when  he 
snatches  the  word  of  life  from  the  hand  of  a  child ! — 
the  Bible,  and  other  books  of  religion,  were  removed 
from  her  possession,  and  their  place  was  supplied  by 
works  of  fiction.  An  excursion  of  pleasure  was  pro- 
posed, and  declined.  An  offer  of  gayer  amusement 
shared  the  same  fate.  Promises,  remonstrances,  and 
threatenings  followed;  and  the  father's  infatuated  per- 
severance at  last  brought  compliance.  Alas!  how 
little  may  a  parent  be  aware  that  he  is  decking  his  off- 
spring with  the  fillets  of  death,  and  leading  to  the  sacri- 
fice, like  a  follower  of  Moloch !  The  end  was  accom- 
plished.    All  thoughts  of  piety  and  all  concern  for  the 

*  From  "Letters  to  a  Fricud,"  by  Dr. Henry. 


372  THE  DIVINE   LIFE. 

immortal  future  vanished  together.  But,  oh,  how  in 
less  than  a  year  was  the  gaudy  deception  exploded ! 
The  fascinating  and  gay  L.  M.  was  prostrated  by  a 
fever  that  bade  defiance  to  medical  skill.  The  ap- 
proach of  death  was  unequivocal;  and  the  counte- 
nance of  every  attendant  fell,  as  if  they  had  heard  the 
descent  of  his  arrow.  "I  see  even  now,''  said  one  who 
was  present,  "that  look  directed  to  the  father  by  the 
dying  martyr  of  folly.  The  glazing  eye  was  dim  in 
hopelessness;  and  yet  there  seemed  a  something  in 
its  expiring  rays  that  told  reproof  and  tenderness  and 
terror  in  the  same  glance.  And  that  voice ! — its  tone 
was  decided,  but  sepulchral  still: — 'My  father!  last 
year  I  would  have  sought  the  Redeemer.     Father — 

your  child  is '  Eternity  heard  the  remainder  of  the 

sentence,  for  it  was  not  uttered  in  time.  The  wretched 
survivor  now  saw  before  him  the  fruit  of  a  disorder 
whose  seeds  had  been  sown  when  his  delighted  look 
followed  the  steps  of  his  idol  in  the  maze  of  a 
dance.  Oh,  how  often,  when  I  have  witnessed  the 
earthly  wisdom  of  a  parent  banishing  the  thoughts  of 
eternity,  have  I  dwelt  on  that  expression  which  seemed 
the  last  reflection  from  a  season  of  departed  hope : — 
'Last  year  I  would  have  sought  the  Eedeemer!'" 

The  poet  shall  be  our  last  teacher.  "  The  Sand  and 
the  Eock,"  by  Mr.  James  Montgomery,  is  founded  on 
the  solemn  words  of  our  Lord  in  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount,  and  represents,  in  characteristic  form,  the 
spiritual  history  of  a  converted  soul.  God  grant  that 
every  reader  of  these  pages  may  be  the  subject  of  a 
like  history ! 


THE   SAND   AND   THE   ROCK.  373 

Part  I.— DESTRUCTION. 

I  BTTiLT  my  house  upon  the  sand, 

And  saw  its  image  in  the  sea. 
That  seem'd  as  stable  as  the  land, 

And  beautiful  as  heaven  to  me.    .    .    . 

I  said  unto  my  soul,  "Rejoice 

In  safety,  wealth,  and  pleasure  here :" 
But,  while  I  spake,  a  secret  voice 

Within  my  bosom  whisper'd,  "Fear." 

I  heeded  not,  and  went  to  rest, 

Prayerless,  once  more,  beneath  my  roof, 
Nor  deem'd  the  eagle  on  his  nest 

More  peril-free,  more  tempest-proof. 

But  in  the  dead  and  midnight  hour 

A  storm  came  down  upon  the  deep; 
Wind,  rain,  and  lightning,  such  a  stour, 

Methought  'twas  doomsday  in  my  sleep. 

I  strove,  but  could  not  wake :  the  stream 

Beat  vehemently  on  my  wall; 
I  felt  it  tottering  in  my  dream ; 

It  fell,  and  dreadful  was  the  fall. 

Swept  with  the  ruins  down  the  flood, 

I  woke:  home,  hope,  and  heart  were  gone; 

My  brain  flash'd  fire,  ice  thrill'd  my  blood; 
Life,  life  was  all  I  thought  upon. 

Death,  death  was  all  that  met  my  eye ; 

Deep  swaJlow'd  deep,  wave  buried  wave; 
I  look'd  in  vain  for  land  and  sky: 

All  was  one  sea, — that  sea  one  grave. 

I  struggled  through  the  strangling  tide. 

As  though  a  bowstring  wrung  my  neck; 
"  Help,  help !" — voice  fail'd — I  fain  had  cried. 

And  clung  convulsive  to  the  wreck. 

Not  long, — for  suddenly  a  spot 

Of  darkness  fell  upon  my  brain. 
Which  spread  and  press'd,  till  I  forgot 

All  pain  in  that  excess  of  pain. 


374  THE   DIVINE   LIFE. 


Part  II.— TRANSITION. 

Two  woes  were  past:  a  worse  befell; 

When  I  revived,  the  sea  had  fled; 
Beneath  me  yawn'd  the  gulf  of  hell, 

Broad  as  the  vanish'd  ocean's  bed. 

Downward  I  seem'd  to  plunge  through  space, 

As  lightning  flashes  and  expires, 
Yet — how  I  know  not — turn'd  my  face 

Away  from  these  terrific  fires, — 

And  saw  in  glory  throned  afar 

A  human  form,  yet  all  divine ; 
Beyond  the  track  of  sun  or  star. 

High  o'er  all  height  it  seem'd  to  shine. 

'Twas  He  who  in  the  furnace  walk'd 

With  Shadrach,  and  controll'd  its  power; 

'Twas  He  with  whom  Elias  talk'd 
In  his  transfiguration-hour. 

'Twas  He  whom,  in  the  lonely  isle 

Of  Patmos,  John  in  spirit  saw, — 
And  at  the  lightning  of  his  smile 

Tell  down  as  dead,  entranced  with  awe. 

From  his  resplendent  diadem 

A  ray  shot  through  mine  inmost  soul : 

"Could  I  but  touch  his  garment's  hem," 

Methought,  "like  her  whom  faith  made  whole!" 

Faith,  faith  was  given;  though  nigh  and  nigher 
Swift  verging  towards  the  gulf  below, 

I  stretch'd  my  hand ;  but  high  and  higher — 
Ah  me ! — the  vision  seem'd  to  go. 

"  Save,  Lord,  I  perish !"  while  I  cried. 

Some  miracle  of  mercy  drew 
My  spirit  upward;  hell  yawn'd  wide. 

And  follow'd;  upward  still  I  flew; 

And  upward  still  the  surging  flame 

Pursued;  yet  all  was  clear  above. 
Whence  brighter,  sweeter,  kindlier  came 

My  blessed  Saviour's  looks  of  love. 


THE  SAND  AND  THE  ROCK.  375 

Till  with  a  sudden  flash  forth  beam'd 

The  fulness  of  the  Deity : 
Hell's  jaws  collapsed;  I  felt  redeem'd; 

The  snare  was  broken;  I  was  free.     .    .    . 

What  follow'd,  human  tongue  in  vain 

Would  question  language  to  disclose  j 
Enough  that  I  was  born  again, 

From  death  to  life  that  hour  I  rose. 


Part  III.— RESTITUTION. 

I  BUILT  once  more,  but  on  a  rock, 

Faith's  strong  foundation  firm  and  sure, 

Fix'd  mine  abode,  the  heaviest  shock 
Of  time  and  tempest  to  endure. 

Not  small,  nor  large,  not  low,  nor  high, 
Midway  it  stands  upon  the  steep. 

Beneath  the  storm-mark  of  the  sky, 
Above  the  flood-mark  of  the  deep. 

And  here  I  humbly  wait,  while  He 
Who  pluck'd  me  from  the  lowest  hell 

Prepares  a  heavenly  house  for  me. 
Then  calls  me  home  with  him  to  dwell. 


"foeeter  with  the  lord !" 

Amen;  so  let  it  be; 
Life  from  the  dead  is  in  that  word,- 

'TlS   IMMORTALIir. 

Here  in  the  body  pent, 

Absent  from  hiji  I  roam; 
Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving  teht 

A  day's  march  nearer  home. 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

Anderson,  Christopher 145 

Banerji,  Krishna 307 

Baxter,  Richard 346 

Bengel,  Albert 12G 

Berridge,  John 345 

Bilney,  Thomas 167 

Birrell,  Ebenezer 82 

Blackader,  Colonel 130 

Boos,  Martin 172 

Budgett,  Samuel 257 

Bunyan,  John 148 

Burn,  Andrew 158 

Butler,  W.  Archer 170 

Cecil,  Richard 274 

Chalmers,  Thomas 239 

Doddridge,  Philip 240 

Edwards,  Jonathan 198 

Fletcher,  Joseph 137 

Foster,  John 117 

Fry,  Caroline 90 

Fuller,  Andrew 350 

Gifford,  Andrew 218 

Graham,  Mrs.  Isabella 139 

Gurney,  Joseph  John 133 


Haldane,  Robert 241 

Hervey,  James 338 

Hewitson,  W.  H 258 

Hope,  Dr.  James 260 

Howels,  WUliam 269 

Huntingdon,  Lady 221 

James,  Monsieur 244 

Jenyns,  Soame 178 

Judson,  Adoniram 251 

Kiffin,  Alderman 219 

Knibb,  William 121 

Latimer,  Hugh 68 

Loyola,  Ignatius 58 

Lyttleton,  Lord 177 

MacAll,  Robert 353 

Merle,  D'Aubign^ 245 

Morrison,  Robert 119 

Newton,  John 279 

Phelps,  Mrs.  Stuart 204 

Richmond,  Legh '. 238 

Rieu,  Charles 244 

Robinson,  Thomas 223 

Rochester,  Earl  of 178 

377 


378 


PAGE 

Scott,  Captain 221 

Simeon,  Charles 226 

Stewart,  Alexander 229 

Toplady,  Augustus 343 

Urquhart,  John 78 

Waldo,  Peter 277 

Walker,  Samuel 341 

Wesley,  Charles 315 


PAOB 

Wesley,  John 312 

West,  Gilbert 177 

White,  H.  K 188 

Whitefield,  George 326 

Wilberforce,  William 233 

Williams,  John 247 

Brahmins,  The 305 

Greenlanders,  The 299 

Kings-wood  Colliers,  The....  335 

South  Sea  Islanders,  The....  303 


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Memoirs  of  Anne  Boleyn. 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Anne  Boleyn,  Queen  of  Henry  the  Eighth. 
By  Miss  Benger,  author  of  "Memoirs  of  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Hamil- 
ton." Second  American  from  the  third  London  edition.  With 
a  Memoir  of  the  Author,  by  Miss  Aikin.  With  Portrait.  1  vol. 
Cloth $1.25 

"No  more  valuable  or  instructive  work  can  be  added  to  a  general  library." — Newark 
Advertiser. 

Memoirs  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots ;  with  Anecdotes  of  the 
Court  of  Henry  IL,  during  her  residence  in  France.  By  Miss 
Benger,  author  of  the  "Memoirs  of  Anne  Boleyn."  With  Por- 
trait.   Two  volumes,  12mo $2.00 

"No  lengthy  review  of  this  work  is  necessary  to  insure  it  a  perusal  from  our  readers, 
for  no  reader  of  history  can  fail  to  take  a  deep  interest  in  the  unfortunate  Mary ;  and 
our  friends  who  are  preparing  volumes  for  winter-evening  perusal  will  find  these  every- 
way worthy  their  attention." — Boston  livening  Gazette. 

Memoirs  of  the  Queens  of  France 

Memoirs  of  the  Queens  of  France.    By  Mrs.  Forbes  Bush.    From  the 

last  London  edition.    With  Portraits.    2vols.  12mo.    Cloth,  $2.00 

"Tliese  memoirs  will  bo  found  not  only  peculiarly  interesting,  but  also  instructive, 

as  tlirowing  considerable  light  upon  the  manners  and  customs  of  past  ages." — Western 

Continent. 


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